







LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



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Vol. 1. No. 396. August 31, 1885. Subscription $30 


Entered at the Post Office, N. Y., as Second-Class Matter. 
Muuru’s IJbrary Is issued Trl-Weekly. 


M to i Ml 



BY MRS. H. C. HOFFMAN. 


NEW YORK: 

NORMAN L. MUNRO, PUBLISHER, 
24 AND 26 VaNDE WATER ST. 


OOITRIGHTED BT NOHMAN L. MUNRO, 1885, 




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LOST TO THE WORLD, 


BY MRS. H. C. HOFFMAN. 


Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1885 , by Nm'- 
man Lt. Munro, in the office of the Librarian of 
Congress, at Washington, D. C. 



NEW YORK: 

NORMAN L. MUNRO, PUBLISHER, 

24 AND 26 VANDEWATER ST. 


V 









[COPYRIGHTED.] 


LOST TO THE WORLD, 


BY MRS. H. C. HOFFMAN. 


CHAPTER I. 

THE SEPARATION, 

“Oh! Harry! I am so glad you have come back at 
last !” and a small pair of whit(! arms were thrown about 
the neck of the young man who had just entered the ele 
gant apartment, and a pair of ruby lips met his with a 
warm kiss of welcome. 

“ Had you grown lonesome, darling?” he asked, return- 
ing her caresses. 

“Lonesome! Oh, so lonesome, Harry. You cannot 
imagine how miserably the last three days have dragged 
by.” 

“I am sorry, my dear— very sorry,” he said, while a 
shadow flitted over his handsome face. 

It might be an expression of pain— some mental or 
physical suffering— but it was gone in a moment, and flxing 
his handsome young eyes once more on the sweet, girlish 
face, he lightly added ; 

“ I am here now, love. Come, let us have no more re- 
pining,” 

He led her to a sofa, where they seated themselves, his 
arm still encircling her slender v/aist. The dark-eyed girl 
rested her head on the shoulder of the man she had learned 
to love far more than life. 

She was not to exceed eighteen summers, tall and slender, 
with graceful form and carriage. Her face was not only 
fair, but all aglow with happy, trustful, girlish love; it 
almost seemed angelic to the man at her side. 

Never did Harry appear more happy than when sitting 
at her side toying with her dark tresses or gazing into the 
fathomless depths of those black eyes, which to him were 
well-springs of love. 

What a handsome pair they made 1 He was tall, manly. 


2 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 


and brave, and she was beautiful, confiding;, and happy. 
No, not altogether happy, for at times dark shadows fiitted 
over her face as well as his. This woidd would be a heaven 
were it not for painful recollections of the past or dark 
fears for the future. 

“I missed you so much — so much,” she said, softly, 
looking fondly into his face while she clasped his hands 
between both her own. 

“Do not forget, my dear, that I miss you,” he said, 
fondly kissing the white smooth brow, 

“But, Harry, why need Ave ever be separated? Can’t 
we always be together?” she asked, nestling her head 
against his shoulder. 

“ It is fate, darling,” he answered, the dark shadow once 
more gathering on his face. There was a struggle in the 
breast of Harry Clarendon. What kind of a struggle one 
could not well determine, without being able to commune 
with his thoughts. There seemed to be nothing bad about 
him. His face appeared honest; but yet we cannot but 
conclude that there is something within his breast of which 
we know not, or at least can only surmise. 

“Will this cruel fate continue to surround us with mis- 
ery and mystery ?” the beautiful girl asked in a pathetic 
tone. 

“No, no, darling ; all will come out right in the end, never 
fear ; but let us not mar our present happiness with gloomy 
thoughts.” 

“Harry ” 

“ Well, dear?” 

“ Do not think ill of me if I am such a little goose, 
but at times there comes to my mind doubts and hor- 
rors ” 

“Una, my own dear little Una,” interrupted Harry 
Clarendon, drawing her closer to him, and gazing fondly 
into her siveet young face, “you must not allow my feel- 
ings to possess you.” 

“ Do not scold me, Harry. I know it’s wrong, yet I can- 
not throw them off — they will return even if I do.” 

“ Una.” he said, looking earnestly into those large dark 
eyes, “ do you doubt me?” 

“No, dear Harry. I never doubted you. I intrust my 
happiness, honor, life, and soul to your keeping.” 

“ I Avill prove true to my trust, darling,” he said, com- 
pressing his lips as if there was more he could not say. 
“ As soon as I can, you shall be acknowledged to the world 
as my wife. We Avill return to your home in NeAv York, 
and your father will forgive us for having clandestinely 
married.” 

“ But why need we ” she began. 


3 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 

“ There— there, my dear, you know you promised not to 
question my motives. Can you doubt me still?” 

“No, dear Harry; you don’t understand me,” said the 
beautiful girl, the tears gathering in her soft, dark eyes. 
“ I am willing to trust to your wisdom. I will say no 
more about it. Mrs. Flowers, the preceptress of my semi- 
nary, has found that I am here, and written a long letter 
to me to know the cause of my absence.” 

“ What does she say about it?” 

“ She says it has an air of mystery, and that there are 
floating rumors concerning nw departure with two strange 
gentlemen, which do not reflect well on my character. 
That she feels it her duty to report the matter to my 
father.” 

An angry exclamation escaped the lips of Harry Claren- 
don, and he started up from the sofa, but when he caught 
sight of the frightened face of his companion, he returned 
to her side, and pressing her to his breast, said: 

“ Darling, pardon my hasty temper. It was those vile 
insinuations which roused the demon in me. They shall 
yet rue the day they uttered them.” 

“But, Harry, this will all cease when I am declared to 
the world your wife.” 

“Yes, darling, yes,” he answered, thoughtfully. 

“ How long will it be until you can. Harry?” she asked. 

“ Not long — oh. Heaven, I hope not longl” he answered, 
averting his face from hers. 

She did not ask him why all this secrecy, for she had 
asked him before, and he seemed to want to avoid her 
questions. She did not dare press him for a direct answer ; 
for vital as the secret was to her happiness, she could not 
wound the man she loved by seeming to doubt him. 

“You won’t leave me again, will you, Harry ?” she asked, 
hopefully. 

She could be happy even amid doubt and mystery if he 
was only at her side. 

“ I must, dear,” was the sad answer. 

She started as if a dagger had been plunged into her side, 
and bitterly exclaimed : 

“ Oh, Harry !” 

“My darling, do not stay me for a moment,” he said, 
by way of hasty exclamation. “I must go; for on my 
departure depends our future happiness and honor.” 

“Oh! what shall I do, Harry?” she asked, wringing her 
small, white hands. 

“ Live hei-e quietly in this small town of Lanshire until I 
return.” 

“ Oh, Harry, please do let me go with you?” 


4 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 


“ I cannot, my dear. Your presence would defeat my 
object.” 

Her presence defeat his object? What could that object 
be that her presence would defeat it? But she would not 
question his wisdom or his honesty of purpose. After 
a few moments, partially regaining her composure, she 
said: 

“ What will my father say?” 

“ He will forgive you when he comes to know the truth.” 

“ But his anxiety ” 

“ His anxiety cannot be as great as mine, darling; and I 
believe you have no mother?” 

“No; my mother died when I was a little child, and 
papa married again. I don’t think my step-mother cares 
what becomes of me. Poor papa will be alarmed at my 
long absence from the academy. I wish Mrs. Flowers had 
not written to him about it.” 

Harry muttered something about wringing the old maid’s 
infernal neck. Having again recovered his composure, he 
said: 

“ I am compelled to go, my dear ; and, much as I regret 
to do so, it cannot be helped. My friend, Hugh Gass, will 
be in the village, and he’ll watch over and befriend you. 
It is best that you should live a retired life for awhile, and 
let them fret and worry until such time as we choose to 
reveal our own secrets.” 

After a few moments’ silence, she asked : 

“ When do you go away, Harry?” 

“ This evening.” 

“So soon?” she gasped, with a painful efiort to suppress 
the sobs which rose in her breast. 

“Yes, my dear; the sooner I go the sooner I can return, 
and the sooner 1 return the sooner you will be made happy. 
I will get this business fixed up and throw off this veil of 
mystery.” 

“ Where do you go, Harry?” 

“South.” 

She did not ask how far south, or to what part of the 
South he was going. The sweet young face, so trustful 
and happy at his entrance, was now thoughtful and grave 
—it was even sad— and she heaved a sigh. Harry noticed 
her dejection of spirits, and, drawing her to him, im- 
printed a kiss upon her cheek, down which a tear trickled. 

As she brushed the tear away there came a rap at the 
door of their apartment. Harry rose and Una dried her 
tears. Opening the door, Mr. Clarendon met a young man 
about two years his senior. The stranger possessed a 
bi'oad. high forehead, but his dark hair and cold gray eyes 
gave him a sinister appearance. 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 


5 


“Good-evening, Harry— good- evening, Miss Una— for 
such you must permit me to call you for the present,” said 
the new-comer, with a blandness which an astute ob- 
server would at once pronounce artificial. A smile play- 
ing on his face, he added: “ Oh, I hope I am not intrud- 
ing.” 

“Not at all, Hugh,” said Harry. “Our circle is small 
and somewhat select, but you are always admitted to it.” 

“ Oh, thank you, thank you. I assure you'it gives me 
great pleasure to see you enjoying yourselves. Your hap- 
piness, like the sun, sheds a glow of warmth about it in 
which your friends can bask,” said the new-comer, enter- 
ing the apartment and rubbing his hands together in as- 
sumed or real satisfaction. 

“Hugh Gass,” said Harry, after his friend had seated 
himself, and he had resumed his own seat by Una on the 
settee, “ you are the only person we have trusted in this 
matter.” 

“ So I am, so I am,” interrupted Gass, rubbing his hands 
with infinite pleasure, “ and I have never given you occa- 
sion to regret having trusted me.” 

“You never have, Hugh,” said Harry; and then he re- 
sumed: “ Things have so shaped themselves that I am 
compelled to be absent for a short time. When I come 
back I will be enabled to set this girl right before the 
world.” 

“ Oh, yes— of course, of course,” said Gass, as if he was 
very desirous of having that done at once. But when his 
face was averted from Harry Clarendon, there was a gleam 
of fiendish exultation on it, which, had the young man 
seen, he certainly would not have left the girl he loved in 
his care. 

“ I must leave Una at this quiet place, where she can 
live unknown,” Harry continued ; “and I shall leave her 
in your charge.” 

“ Oh, yes — yes — yes; you could not intrust her to safer 
hands, I assure you,” said Gass, with his blandest smile. 

“ If her father or some other person should trace her 
here, or be about to move her, she must be removed to 
some obscure place to await my return. You under- 
stand ?” 

“ Oh, of course— of course, Harry, and your wishes shall 
be carried out to the letter.” 

The hour for dining had approached, and Una went to 
dress for dinner. In a few moments she returned, looking 
very sweet, with a rose in her hair and a bunch of garlands 
on her bosom. She tried to smile and be happy, but there 
was a heavy weight on her young heart. She took Harry’s 
arm, and, followed by Hugh Gass, they went to the dining- 


6 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 

room. Gass being in their rear, and they being wholly 
preoccupied with each other, they saw not the fiendish 
gleam in his baleful eyes. 

He kept up a side conversation in his smooth, oily way, 
rubbing his hands occasionally in his excess of pleasure at 
being able to serve his friends. 

At nine o’clock Harry Clarendon’s train would leave. 
We will pass hurriedly over the separation of himself from 
the girl whose heart was his own. There was nervous 
anxiety as the hour for his departure approached. Then, 
when the hour had come, there were sighs, tears, sobs, fond 
embraces, and assurances of eternal love and fidelity, 

In his nervoiis anxiety Harry seemed unable to pack his 
valise, -and Gass volunteered his services. In removing 
some articles from his trunk to his valise Harry let a folded 
paper fall to the floor. In an instant the eagle-eyed Gass 
had seized it, and hid it in his breast-pocket, while his eyes 
gleamed more than ever like a demon’s. 

“ I will return as soon as I can, darling,” said Harry, his 
fine, manly face expressing the deep emotions which stirred 
his soul at parting. “ When I come back I hope that every- 
thing which goes to add mystery to this awful affair may 
be swept away.” 

One last kiss, one last straining of fond heart to heart, 
and the loved ones were separated. Harry tore himself 
away, too much agitated to say farewell, and, followed by 
Gass, who carried his valise, he hurried away to the depot. 

“ ‘ Awful affair !’ ” sobbed the girl when alone. “ Wliat 
did he mean by ‘awful affair?’ Oh, Heaven! is it awful?” 
and she fell upon the sofa and gave way to a flood of 
tears. 

In the meanwhile Harry Clarendon was hastening away 
to the depot, from which he was to depart. His friend 
Gass was at his side, all confidence and friendship. 

“Hugh,” said Harry, with deep emotions stirring his 
soul, “ I am leaving in your care the dearest being in all 
the world to me. Oh I Hugh, do not forsake Una; prove a 
true friend to her. I will leave money with you to pay 
her bills. No one need know where she is. If she is dis- 
covered or followed here, take her to some other remote 
place. Prove a brother to her, my friend.” 

“I will— I will.” 

“ I know you will, my dear fellow. I could trust my 
life with you. In lact, I am intrusting more than life to 
you in leaving my darling in your care. You know what 
cursed nets entangle me, and must stand my friend in this 
matter.” 

When they reached the depot platform, Harry drew a 
roll of bills from his pocket, and counting out one thousand 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 


7 


dollars, placed the whole amount in the hands of Gass, 
saying: 

“Take it. It is for her. Heaven granting me luck, I 
will be back long before it is used. While I am gone see 
that no luxury is denied her. I intrust every thing to your 
care, for she knows nothing of business.” 

The train now reached the platform, and the loud bell 
clanged forth its warning notes of departure. 

“ All aboard?” cried the conductor. 

“Farewell, Gass,” cried Harry, grasping his friend’s 
hand. “ In God’s name be true to your trust.” 

“I will — I will,” Gass responded, wringing the hand of 
his friend in pretended sympathy. 

Harry sprung upon the car-steps as the train moved off, 
and waved an adieu to the false friend on the depot plat- 
form. It had grown so dark, and the distance the train 
had already gone was so great, that Harry Clarendon could 
not see the expression of fiendish delight on the face of 
Hugh Gass. 

“ He’s gone— yes, gone — and she is now in my power,” 
hissed Gass. “Ha, ha, ha! everything has played to my 
hand, and I shall yet make things as I wish them to be. 
Ha, ha, ha!— oh, my proud beauty. I’ll humble you yet. I’ll 
bend your will or break your proud spirit.” 


CHAPTER II. 

UNMASKED. 

It was Harry Clarendon’s plan to keep Una’s where- 
abouts a secret. His manner was a mystery to Una, but 
she had such absolute faith in the man whom she loved, 
that she never doubted his conduct was for the best. 

She disliked Hugh Gass from the first. His blandish- 
ments and assumed friendship seemed glaring hypocrisy, 
yet he was Harry’s friend, and as such she was bound to 
have some regard for him. 

“ It may only be prejudice against him, after all,” she 
thought, “ and for Harry’s sake I will try and overcome 
it. Were he a bad man, Harry would never have intrusted 
me to his care.” 

A few days passed, and there came a letter from the 
wanderer, written from some little obscure town in the 
great West. It was brief, but full of love and hope. 

Oh, how eagerly she read the missive, and how tenderly 
she pressed it to her heart ! He loved her yet, for he said 
so in his brief epistle, and she condemned herself for ever 
having doubted his love. Two weeks more passed without 
any further information from Harry. She grew restless 
and uneasy. Mr. Gass represented that she was not safe 


8 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 


in the village, as her friends were on the search for her, 
and had her removed to another town, more obscure, if 
possible, than the first, where she resided at a small board- 
mg-hcuse under an assumed name, visited occasionally by 
Gass, who represented himself as a brother of the young 
lady. 

One day, chancing to glance in a New York paper, she 
saw a slanderous account of her strange disappearance 
from Mrs. Flowei-s’ fashionable boarding-school. At the 
bottom of the column the paper stated that a special re- 
porter had interviewed Colonel George Belmont at his ele- 
gant residence on Thirty-fourth Street. The reporter 
stated that the colonel was very much grieved and indig- 
nant at the conduct of his daughter ; but he bore up man- 
fully under the shame she had brought upon the family. 
The colonel believed his daughter had eloped with and 
married some worthless fellow, and that she could never 
be his child again. 

Una had the spirit of a Belmont, and indignantly throw- 
ing the paper aside, she started to her feet. 

“If papa can discard me so easily,” she said, “ I can for- 
get I am his child. Henceforth I live for Harry alone. On 
his love I will depend for existence. I can live in this seclu- 
sion and be happy with him. The proud Belmonts can go, 
I denj^ that I was ever one.” 

Doubtless she would have been happy with Harry, but, 
alas! he was not at her side to console her in her hours of 
trial. 

Weeks wore on, and she received no more letters from 
the man she loved. She grew impatient and uneasy. 

Mr. Gass came to see her quite frequently, and in an off- 
hand way, spoke of Harry’s absence and singular silence. 

“Do you suppose, Mr. Gass, that anything could have 
happened him?” she asked. “Oh, if harm should befall 
Harry, what would become of me?” 

“I’ll warrant that he’s safe,” said Mr. Gass, while a 
strange smile played on his features. 

“ Why is he so silent?” 

“Oh, it’s Harry’s way. Ha, ha, ha !— I know him so 
well. He is a singular fellow — a very singular fellow.” 

Mr. Gass’ visits became frequent, and were longer than 
Una desired. Each time he seemed to grow more and more 
repulsive, yet for Harry’s sake she was forced to treat him 
with some degree of respectability. 

One day the cunning villain was reading a newspaper. 
He glanced over an item concerning an attack by a party 
of savages on a wagon train. The list of killed was givem 
Among them was the name of Harry Clarendon. A look 
of joy overspread the reader’s face, Harry had deceived 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 


9 


Una in regard to his journey. He said he was going South, 
but he was killed in the West. 

■ She is now completely in my po-wer,” said the villain, 
“and her proud spirit will either bend or break ; but, Hugh 
Gass, you must be careful. You have a good hand, are 
playing for a high stake now, and so beware which card 
you lay down. Better let her think him alive than dead, 
for if she thought him dead, she would honor his mem- 
ory.” 

When next he saw Una he said nothing about what he 
had discovered in the paper, and took care that she should 
not read the paper herself. 

“ I must leave you for a day or two. Miss Una,” he said, 
one morning. She looked at him a moment; her cheek 
flushed. How dare he address her as “Miss Una.” She 
had taken a bold step for the man she loved, and now 
had begun paying the penalty. But love is blind to rea- 
son, and she could not see that she had done wrong. Oh, 
how she wished Harry would return. She knew he would 
punish the fellow’s insolence. 

“ I am going away on business, which will keep me for 
several days,” continued Gass, coolly, as he drew on his 
gloves and pressed his fingers well into them. “But your 
board is paid two weeks in advance, and I will return be- 
fore that time.” 

“ He speaks as if I were a dependent,” said the indig- 
nant Una, when the fellow was gone. “Hai’ry left money 
with some one to pay my board, I know. Oh, Harry, 
Harry, why don’t y outcome home and free n>e from these 
taunting insults.” 

Hugh Gass took the train for New York. On his ar- 
rival, he went at once to the elegant mansion of Colonel 
Belmont. 

He rang the bell, and a servant in livery came and 
opened the door. 

“ Is Colonel Belmont in?” he asked. 

“Yes, sir.” 

“ I wish to see him on business.” 

“ What is your name, sir?” the servant asked. 

“ Gass — Hugh Gass: but I’m a stranger, and can confide 
my business to no one save the colonel himself.” 

The sei-vant left him Avaiting in the hall and went to the 
library, where Colonel Belmont usually spent his mornings 
reading the papers. 

In a few moments the servant returned to the hall and 
said he would show the gentleman to the co.onel’s room. 
Hugh Gass, all smiles and good nature, was ushered into 
the presence of an old gentleman with dark eyes, iron- 


10 LOST TO THE WORLD. 

gray hair, and a countenance which was an index to his 
iron will. 

“ Be seated sir,” said the old gentleman, with an air of 
one accustomed to command. 

“ You are Colonel Belmont, I presume?” said Gass, seat- 
ing himself on a chair. 

Everything Gass did was with care, as though he 
wanted to make sure of every step before he took another. 

“I am. What is your business with me?” was the an- 
swer. 

“ You have a daughter named Una ” 

“ Yes, sir; are you the man ” interrupted the indig- 

nant father, his cheeks flushed with rage as he started from 
his seat. 

“No— no, sir; I am not,” quickly responded the wily 
Mr. Gass. 

“ Do you know anything of her?” 

“ I do; by the merest accident I met your daughter.” 

“ She was my daughter, but is not now. She forfeited 
all right to be called a child of mine. I have discarded 
her.” 

“ I wish to ask a few questions. Colonel Belmont — not to 
gratify curiosity, but for your own good,” said the shrewd 
Gass. 

The man seepied so disinterested and kind that Colonel 
Belmont felt constrained to say: 

“ Ask what questions you wish; and if not impertinent, 
I will answer them.” 

“Is it true that Miss Tina is your only child, by your 
first wife?” 

There was special stress on the words “ Miss Una.'’’ 

“Yes, sir,” answered the colonel, somewhat abruptly. 

“ Did not your first wife have considerable property iti 
her own right ” 

“ Now, sir,” cried the exasperated Colonel Belmont, 
starting to his feet in a rage, “ you have gone far enough. 
What is it your business? If she has married some worth- 
less vagabond, she shall not have a dollar. I would not 
give her shelter if she were dying in the street.” 

“ Hold— hold, Colonel Belmont,” said Gass, coolly, not 
seeming the least disconcerted by the lU'^nner of the angry 
man before him. “Remember these questions are not 
propounded in the interest of the man who ruined your 
daughter. He is no friend of mine.” 

“Do you know the man? Who is he?” asked the colo- 
nel, resuming his seat and making a tremendous effort to 
be calm. 

“ If you will be patient, and listen to what I have to say, 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 


11 


I will tell yon all. and that will explain the necessity of 
my asking these questions.” 

“ Go on. I will try to listen.” 

“ Youi' daughter was never married.” 

“ What!” cried the father, starting to his feet. 

“ Be quiet, be quiet, colonel; take it easy. What I tell 
you is true,” said Gass, with a coolness and power which 
seemed to enchain tlie agonized father to his seat. 

“Not married!” lie groaned, as he realized the awful 
disgi-ace which had befallen his family. 

“No, sir; she was duped— deceived by a villain; and 
even if she inherits wealth from her mother, he could not 
control it.” 

“Who is he? Where is he?” demanded the colonel, 
starting up as if he would rend the villain limb from limb. 

“Be quiet. Colonel Belmont; seat yourself again,” said 
Gass, with a coolness which made him master of the situ- 
ation. Putting out his hand, he gracefully waved the 
colonel to his seat. “ He is beyond your reach. His name 
is Harry Clarendon, a fast young man of good family in 
Boston. This will tell you where he is.” 

He drew from his vest pocket a newspaper clipping, 
which gave an account of the attack on the train, and death 
of Harry Clarendon. 

“The villain!” hissed the father. “He has gone to his 
just account; but she — where is she?” 

There was more deep anxiety expressed in the question 
than suited Gass. His object was, without seeming to do 
so. to imbitter the father against his own child ; hence the 
insinuations in regard to property from her mother. vVith- 
out revealing his covert object, the villain answered : 

“ Since she was deserted by Clarendon, I have supported 
her mainly at my own expense.” 

- “ It may be,” said the father, clutching at a hope ns a 
drowning man will at a straw— “oh, it may be that she 
and Clarendon were married.” 

“ No— Clarendon had a living wife in Colorado at the 
time,” said Gass, drawing from his side-pocket the same 
document Harry had dropped on the day of his departure. 
“Here is the marriage certificate of Harry Clarendon to 
Catharine Montour.” 

“ The villain!” hissed Colonel Belmont, sinking back in 
his easy-chair, too much overcome to say more. 

“ What will you do with the girl?” asked Gass, coolly, 
not the least disturbed by the father’s rage or suffering. 
All the iron determination of the old gentleman came to 
his aid as he answered : 

“Nothing— she has disgraced myself and family, and 
ruined herself. My wife, sir, is a lady of one of the most 


12 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 


respectable and aristocratic families in New York, and do 
you thick she would for a moment permit such a polluted 
being to stand beneath our roof? No — nor would I, though 
she were starving in the street.” 

Those evil eyes scintillated with inward pleasure as the 
villain calmly looked upon the enraged though suffering 
man before him. 3ut no other outward sign indicated 
the emotions, hopes, or delight in the breast of Hugh 
Gass. 

“ Remember she is your child,” he said, after a moment’s 
exultation. 

“No, I won’t. I will forget that T ever knew her. The 
place my wife and children occupy in society is jeopardized 
by her conduct, and to receive her even as a servant would 
ruin us. My door is closed against her henceforth and for- 
ever.” 

“Think, colonel, before you act,” said the cunning vil- 
lain, pretending to reconcile the fat’ner to his erring child, 
yet at the same time widening the breach between them. 
“ You discard her, and she is lost to the world.” 

“ She is lost to me forever, sir. If you do not wish to 
maintain the creature, drive her from your house. I will 
not talk of her.” 

The old gentleman again sprung to his feet as if about to 
leave the room. 

“ One moment, sir. Humanity, if not paternal affection, 
demands that this young lady be cared for. She is soon to 
become a mother ” 

“ 1 will hear no more. Let her and the bi-at die — starve, 
freeze, or drown, for all I care. Enough of ” 

“ Listen to mercy.” 

“ Enough. I am dead to mercy.” 

“ One word more — only one.” 

“Not another! Begone, sir! Come to me to plead for a 
thief, a dog, but not for one who has ruined the peace and 
happiness of my whole family !” 

Hugh Gass had fully accomplished his purpose, and ris- 
ing, bowed himself out, as if he had come for the most be- 
nevolent purpose and been made a martyr for charity. 

He had worked up the father to such a pitch of frenzy 
that he left him tearing his hair and swearing eterlial 
vengeance on the head of that wayward child, who had 
brought disgrace to his honorable name. 

The wily Gass went to the office of a lawyer, with whom 
he held a long consultation, and then left the city, taking 
the train for the obscure town where he had left Una. 

“It all works well,” he said to himself, rubbing the 
palms of his hands together when he was seated in the 
train, “ The father will have nothing to do with her, 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 


38 


Harry is dead, and she must depend on me or beg. I can 
force her in time to marry me, and then my New York 
lawyer will see that my wife has all the property to 
which she is entitled from her mother’s estate. We will 
see if an indignant father will cheat her out of it, for he’s 
only entitled to a courtesy in the estate at most, the lawyer 
says. Hugh Gass, luck has turned in your favor at last. 
Go in, old fellow; feather your nest while you can,” and 
he rubbed the palms of his hands together with such in- 
finite satisfaction that they burned. 

It was several days before he paid Una another visit, for 
Hugh Gass did not wish to appear in haste to culminate 
his plans. When he did call on her her hollow eyes and 
pale features told of the agony she had begun to suffer at 
the protracted absence of Clarendon. 

“ Oh, Mr. Gass, have you heard anything from Harry?” 
she asked the moment he entered the room. 

“ He is all right,” said the scoundrel, with a smile, as he 
sank in a graceful position on the sofa. 

“What do you mean?” she asked, wringing her hands in 
silent agony. 

“ Well, Una, you had just as well know the truth now 
as at any other time,” was the nonchalant answer. 

“Truth! what truth?” she cried, sinking into a chair, 
and tears starting to her eyes. “Oh, God! tell me, has 
anything happened to Harry?” 

“Not that I know of, unless he’s into some other love 
scrape.” 

“ Sir!” she cried, starting up, with the fury of a tigress; 
“ dare you insult his name in my presence?” 

For a moment Gass contemplated her with a smile on his 
wicked face, and then said : 

“Pretty and spirited.” 

Too much stunned to swoon, and too indignant to weep, 
the beautiful gi)-l gazed at him a moment, and said : 

“ I demand an explanation of all this insult.” 

“I could have explained a month ago, but I did not 
think it proper. You have been deceived." 

“ Deceived by whom?” 

“ Harry Clarendon.” 

“ It is false, 'and you are a traitor to you3- friend.” 

“You thought him a single man.” 

“He was.” 

Without rising from his reclining position, the scoundi*el 
took from his pocket a bit of folded paper, and tossed it 
to her. 

She unfolded the document, and her eager eyes seemed 
to burn and her breast ceased to heave as she read the 
marriage certificate of Harry Clarendon to Catharine 


14 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 


Montour. A moment she stood rigid as stone,' and then, 
like a crushed lily, sank silently to the floor. 

“That’s all good so far,’’ said Gass, coolly. “First a 
fainting, then raging, finally hating, and in the end come 
to loving the man who exposed him.” 

After idly staring a few moments at the insensible girl, 
he rose and lifted her to the sofa. Seizing a glass of 
water, he bathed her forehead until she began to recover. 
Slie revived slowly, and as soon as she comprehended what 
had befallen her, she said : 

“ Oh, Heaven ! can’t I die— can’t I die? Where is Harry? 
Let me find him. He will give the lie to these slandei's.” 

“You cannot find him, Miss Una,” said Gass, trying to 
appear very benevolent. “No one knows where he is. 
Even if you found him, he would spurn you from his side 
with contempt. You have suffered enough without such 
degradation as that.” 

“01). Harry, Harry, my darling, can this be true?” 

“This paper should prove it,” and beheld before her 
that awful marriage certificate, dated but one month 
before she quitted the boarding-school to elope with 
him. 

“Oh, kill me, kill me!” 

“ No, no; live to be a credit to the scoundrel yet.” 

She started to her feet, dazed and confused; a shudder 
passed through her frame. He had called Harry — her 
Hai-ry— a scoundrel. Wounded as that heart was, she 
loved him — oh, how dearly she loved him still! 

“ Harry, Harry! oh, my God! can it be that you have 
deceived me?” she cried, and sinking once more upon the 
sofa, slie bowed her face in her hands and wept bitterly. 

Gass thongl)t she would be better alone Avitli her grief 
for awhile; and in his oily, sympathetic manner, said: 

“ I will leave you for the present, Una, but will call to- 
morrow to see you on a matter of the utmost import- 
ance.” 

She did not respond, and he left her. He returned the 
next day. What a change a few short hours had wrought 
in the lovely Una Belmont! She seemed to have grown 
many years older; and her features were so pale and hag- 
gard as to cause some alarm in the breast of tl\e wily 
schemer. 

Gass was still unperturbed, and seemed all benevolence 
and kindness. After talking for some time on common- 
place, every-day affairs, to the pale, silent woman before 
him, he said : 

“ Una, I am now the only friend you have in the wide 
world. I kept the truth from you until it became neces 
sary that the perfidy of the man who had wronged you. 


' LOST TO THE WORLD. 


lo 


should be known. As Hamlet says, ‘ I must be cruel that 
I may be kind.’ I have pleaded with your father, and he 
absolutely refuses j^u a home. So far I have cheerfully 
borne your expenses.” 

“ Did not Harry leave money?” 

“ Not one cent. ” 

“ Oh, Heaven ! this is too much — too much !” wailed the 
heart-broken girl, her tears streaming down her cheeks. 

Bowing her head upon the arm of the sofa, she sobbed 
hysterically. 

The time had come for the villain to unmask himself. 
The supreme moment had arrived when he was to know 
whether all his planning and scheming had been in vain. 
He was now to play his liighe.st curd and use his most con- 
summate skill. If he blundered, all might yet be lost. 

Don’t take it so hard, my dear girl,” he said, his voice 
trembling with eagerness. -‘If Harry Clai-endon has 
proven false to you, do not mistrust all men. Notwith- 
standing you have never looked on me witli favor, I have 
always loved you; and, if you will consent to become 
mine, my heart and hand are yours.” 

She started up as if that wounded heart had been 
pierced, and glaring at the villain with her great black 
eyes, cried: 

“ You— you wretch!” 

All the caution and exquisite skill with which Gass has 
conducted the affair now seems to desert him, and in a fit 
of anger lie said : 

“ Is tliat the return you give for the love of a man bn 
whose bounty you have subsisted for months?” 

“Bounty— your bounty I Am I dependent on your 
bounty ?’’ 

“ Of course you are,” he answered, with biting sai-casm. 

She gave utterance to a cry, and gathered up a small 
traveling-bag, her hat, and cloak. 

“ Your bounty— then, sir, I scorn your bounty. I leave 
you lo beg— to starve — before I shall be dependent on the 
bounty of such a villain as you.” 

She darted out of the room, leaving him standing on the 
floor speechless and amazed. 


CHAPTER Hi. 

DRIVEN FROM HOME. 

Months have passed since the scene described in our last 
chapter. A pale, wan-faced young mother stoops over the 
cradle wherein lies a sleeping infant. The room is a 
wretched affair in a tenement-house in Boston. The furni- 
ture is scant, old, and cheap. 


16 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 


There is little in that emaciated face to remind us of the 
once happy Una Belmont. Hers is the same old sad story. 
Finding herself, as she believed, deserted by the man she 
loved, and almost in a snare set for her by the man she 
hated, she turned her back on the world and fled to the 
city of Boston, to hide herself in its most humble neighbor- 
hood. 

Her jewelry was converted into money, and she took up 
lodging with a laborer’s family. Here her child was born ; 
and as she lay on the rude bed, tended by the kind but 
poor woman, she first looked into that sweet, innocent 
young face, and felt a mother’s love in her heart. But this 
love brought not happiness with it; instead it had its 
sting. 

“God bless my poor little darling,” sobbed Una. 
“Heaven alone knows what your lot in life may be.” 
When the bright little eyes opened, and were fixed on her 
Avith an infantile stare, she said: 

“ She has eyes just like Harry.” 

Una had not uttered his name before for weeks, and 
though she loved him with all her fond heart, there was a 
pane: at the thought of him. He was lost to her, and she 
to the world. 

When she was able to again go about, her small stock of 
money, the proceeds of the sale of her jewelry, was almost 
exhausted, and she throAvn on her own resources to sup- 
port herself and child. She who had been reared in 
luxury, who had never known want before, must now 
labor. 

Her first thought was to secure a position in some family 
as governess, but a recommendation would probably be re- 
quired, and she abandoned that idea at once. Her strong 
mother’s love conquered her pride, and she learned to do 
menial labor, Avashing laboring-men’s clothes and scrub- 
bing kitchens, in order to supply her child Avith life. 

Winter came, and a severe Avinter it proved. She found 
her most heroic efforts inadequate to keep the wolf from 
the door. It Avas a poor door at best. She had rented the 
small room Avhere Ave find her, and scantily furnished it 
Avitli cheap chairs, bed and cradle. The cold Avinter blasts 
howled through the cracks of the door, and the miserable 
AvindOAvs rattled in their frames. Frequently the snoAv- 
flakes came through and drifted in little heaps about the 
room. 

Poor Una! how sad the change, hotc dark the future! 
She had never known a moment’s sorrow until she met 
Harry Clarendon, and not a moment’s happiness since his 
departure. Not knoAving his fate— for she had not read 
the newspaper account of his death— she still believed him 


LOST TO THE WOULD. 


17 


a deceiver. Though he had betrayed her, she never up 
braided him, even in her own mind. 

The future was, indeed, darlc She cared not for self, 
but her child — her precious little helpless dai’ling was a 
terrible care on her mind. The baby was a girl, and she 
named it Isola, for both mother and child were isolated 
f i-om the world. Her heart was dried up 1 o all save the 
child she held close in her arms at night, and rocked in the 
broken cradle during the day. She would live honest and 
pure for its sake, and labor day and night for its main- 
tenance. 

“Oh, Isola, darling little cherub,” she sobbed, gazing 
upon the pale face of the sleeping babe, “ how different 
your life fi’om mine ! I slumbered on downy pillows, while 
you must be content to rest in this hard cradle or a miser- 
able heap of straw— oh. Heaven, is this just?” 

The winter was very severe, and the poor all over the 
country suffered — Boston was no exception. 

Poor Una worked hard with her hands, washing by day 
and doing such sewing as she could get to do by night. 
She grew weaker and weaker day by day, in both body 
and spirit. She was so humble now tliat she would have 
gladly scrubbed the door-stoops for a crust of bread. 

Long the brave girl battl<^d with her pride, but at 
last, like the prodigal son, remembered that in h(n* father’s 
house there was abundance, while she starved in a strange 
land. If she only had the crumbs which fell from her fa- 
ther’s table they would support life for herself and child. 
Hitherto she had lived incognito, avoiding her father and 
Gass as if they were enemies. At last she wrote her father 
a letter telling him all. She did not reproach Harry 
Clarendon — she still loved him too well for that — but she 
pleaded for her darling child. It was innocent, whatever 
her crime might be. She concluded her letter with an 
earnest appeal. 

“ Oh, father,” she wrote, “ if you still remember the child 
you once loved, do not cast me off now. I know I have 
erred, but only give me a place in your kitchen, beneath 
your humblest servant, and I will be content. Not only 
myself, but this poor little baby must perish, unless you 
give us a home. The night is bitter cold, and even as I 
write the snow drifts about in my miserable room. Close 
as I hug my babe to my breast, I cannot keep it warm.” 

The appeal, which ought to have melted a heart of stone, 
failed to penetrate the steel coat of pride which Colonel 
Belmont had drawn about him. Una, in her letter, gave 
him her address ; also the assumed name by which she had 
been known. She waited two weeks longer, in anxioas 


18 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 


expectation, but her father neither came nor sent her 
money. She heard notbinp; of him. 

At last she despnii-ed. What must she do? 

“Oh, Heavenly Father, aid me in this awful hour, for 
my earthly father has deserted me!” slie prayed, as she 
knelt by the side of her sleeping child, one bitter, cold niglit, 
two days before Christmas. 

She resolved while on her knees, to go to her father’s 
house, and there with her helpless, almost dying child in 
her arms, to beg for life for both. Surely he would not turn 
them away. 

The next morning she disposed of her scant effects, 
barely realizing enough on them to purchase a ticket for 
New York. 

It was Christmas night when she arrived in the latter 
city, and set out on foot from the depot to her father’s 
house. Everywhere there were joy and gladness, save in 
her poor breast. The snow was falling, and already the 
streets were covered. She heard the merry jingling of 
sleigh-bells, and through half-parted curtains saw gayly- 
decoi'ated rooms and bright faces. Happiness everywhere 
met her view. 

The snow fell in eddying whirls, forming a white wind- 
ing sheet about the city. But this only seemed to add to 
the merriment of the occasion. Gay ly -caparisoned horses 
and sledges skimmed along the brilliantly-illuminated 
streets, heedless of the falling snow, seeming to mock 
poor Una’s misery. She drew the thin shawl about her 
shivering babe, and dragged her Aveary feet through the 
snow, which rapidly accumulated on the pavement. 

The heart of the poor outcast beat violently as her own 
elegant home loomed up in view. There was the same 
stoop she had known from childhood, on which she had so 
oiten played ; but now the splendor of the grand mansion, 
from which a flood of light was emitted, almost stunned 
her. 

The poor clothing of herself and child were quite in con- 
trast with its elegance, ^he curtains were raised in the 
grand old bay-window, and from it came the gorgeous 
light of the chandelier and sounds of merry voices. 

How happy Avere her half-brothers and "sisters, and hoAv 
miserable she! Would they let her share that happiness? 

She paused a moment to lean against the old elm-tree, 
Avbich grew at the edge of the curbstone in front of the 
elegant mansion. Summoning all her courage, she as- 
cended the steps of the stoop and rang the bell. 

Oh, what would be tbe result? She dared not ask her- 
self. The wind Avhistled about her, and she hugged the 
shivering baby closer to her breast. 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 


19 


The door opened, and a servnnt in livery appeared. A 
flood of light from the hall cliandelier fell on the miserable 
outcast and lier suffering child. 

“ What do you want?" the servant demanded in a surly 
tone. ‘‘ We have nothing to do with beggars here.” 

For a moment she tried to speak, but overwlielming 
emotion choked her. The servant was one of her father's 
old faithful domestics. When she was a child he had 
played with her, and was ever ready to do her bidding. 
Now he met her with the epithet of beggar at her own 
door. 

“Oh, Tcm — Toml” she sobbed, the tears trickling down 
her half-frozen cheeks; “don’t you know me?’’ 

“Good Heaven!” cried the astounded servant; “it’s 
Miss Una.” 

“ Yes, Tom, it is I— come liome to rest; let me in.” 

She made an effort to pa.ss him; but the old servant, 
whom she thought could not be estranged from her, barred 
the way with his body . 

“ You cannot come in,” he said, severely. 

“Oh, Tom — Tom!” wailed the poor outcast, almost sink- 
ing on the stoop. Tom seemed to falter, when Una heard 
the voice of her step-mother, further back in tlie hall, say : 

“ Drive that vile creature away, Tom, or you shall re- 
pent it!” 

“Oh, God! — oh, my mother who is in heaven, can you 
not save your child to-night? Am 1 to be turned away to 
die in the street?” 

“Yes,” cried her step-mother. “Drive her away, 
Tom !” 

“Go away. You shall not come in here,” said the serv- 
ant. 

“ Oh, Tom, Tom! let me see my father — he will not drive 
me away !” 

“He doesn’t want to see you!” almost slirieked Mica. 
Belmont fi-om her invisible position in the hall. 

“Let me speak one word with him!” pletided Una with 
the servant. 

“ He has given orders if you came to drive you off, and 
I must,” said Tom. 

“ Y’'ou will not — oh! you cannot, Tom!” 

“ I must — I must — go — go, or I must.” 

“ Oh, Heaven! think of my baby!” 

‘ ‘ Go-go !” cried the servant, pushing her toward the 
steps of the stoop. 

“No, no! let me stay in the kitchen. Father — father, 
help me, or I will perish!” shrieked Una, growing des- 
perate. 

“ He will not hear you ; he will not answer you if he does. 


20 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 


You must go away from the house, and not disturb the 
party they are having here.” 

“ Oh, don’t — don’t!” she screamed, as the servant pushed 
her from the door and down the stoop. “ Father — father! 
will you allow your child to be driven into the street to 
die?” 

Having driven her to the pavement, the servant bounded 
up the stoop, i-e-entered the house, and closed the door. 


CHAPTER IV. 

AT THE STATION. 

“ Driven from home— out on the street — lost to the world ! 
Oh, my God ! my God !” sobbed Una, as she stood on the 
pavement in front of her father’s house, holding her baby 
close in her arms. The little thing began to wail feebly. 

“Poor little darling, born to misery! Heaven only 
knows what your fate will be. On myself rests an awful 
responsibility. Why did I not seek refuge beneath the 
waves, before I lived to meet the rebuke your sweet, inno- 
cent face gives me?” 

The infant continued to sob and cry. Una, stunned and 
confused, not knowing what to do, still stood beneath the 
great bay window from which came sounds cf happiness. 

The hall door opened, and once more she heard the angry 
voice of her step-mother speaking to the servant. 

“ Tom,” she cried, “ drive that beggar from the street! 
Call a policeman and have her taken to the station. We 
will not be annoyed with her to-night.” 

“ Sent to the station?” sobbed Una. “ Oh, you can issue 
such commands against one j'^ou never loved. My own 
mother, were she alive, would not send me to prison 
simply because I asked a crust of bread for myself and 
child, and a rug on which to sleep! Oh, God! God! what 
have I done that my fate should be so hard?” 

The door opened, and Tom again emerged upon the 
stoop. 

“You must go away,” he said, in a husky voice, as 
though he hated the orders he was forced to give. “ Go 
off, or I will have to call a policeman and have you ar- 
rested.” 

“ Oh, Tom, Tom! do let me see papa; he will not, he can- 
not drive me away on such a night as this ” 

“ He won’t see you ; you must go away.” 

“Oh, Tom! I will die if you drive me away. Remember 
how good I have ever been ” 

“ I can’t help that — you must go; if you do not I ” 

“ Is your heart of stone?” 

“ Theirs are, and I am compelled to do their bidding.” 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 


21 


She cast one last, mournful glance at the house which 
had been the happy home of lier childhood, and started 
away through the snow, carrying her baby in her arms. 

‘‘Farewell, farewell forever!” she sobbed. If her step 
mother heard her, slie was glad to know that it was for- 
ever. 

On, on trudged the poor outcast, not daring to stop, not 
knowing whither she was going. With her wailing, suffer- 
ing child in her arms, she walked on and on. 

Was there one in all that great city, which boasted of 
its charity, who would take her out of the storm? Surely 
not, since her parents had refused her shelter. Charity 
was not for such as she. They might extend it to animals, 
but not to her. 

The snow continued to fall in eddying whirls, at times 
almost blinding her. As she turned street corners, she 
was sometimes almost swept down by the shrill blasts. 

The child was hushed by the cold blasts and howling 
winds. Perhaps it was terror which inspired that infant 
heart and stopped the sobs. It clung closer and closer to 
its mother for protection— to that mother who, alas! was 
powerless to help her darling. 

All around her were brilliant lights from windows and 
doorways. Occasionally she could catch a glimpse of beau- 
tiful rooms and glowing firesides. There were happy moth- 
ers with laughing children, which seemed to madden the 
brain of the poor outcast and wanderer. 

Sleigh-l^lls rang merrily on the streets, and gay equip- 
ages continued to dash past her. On, on, and on she went, 
not knowing whither she was going. Her tears had long 
since become dried, and her heart seemed turning to stone. 

“ Had mother lived,” she said, sadly, “ though my crime 
had been tenfold what it is, I would have found a warm 
place in her home and heart. A father may forget his 
child, but a mother never. Oh, cruel fate, that drives mo 
to death and madness!” 

She walked on grim and silent. The cold winds which 
whistled about her were unheeded. Was her child asleep, 
or dead? She did not know, and in reality did not seem 
to care. She struggled on ; sometimes she came upon men 
scraping the snow from the pavement. These humble sons 
of toil cast sympathetic glances after the forlorn creature. 
Their own sufferings had sharpened their sympathies, and 
when they saw a young woman with a face pale as the 
snow that fell, hugging a child to her breast and wander- 
ing about in the storm, their hearts were touched. 

“The poor creature is daft,” sighed a tender-hearted 
Scotchman, leaning on his wooden spade. “ Weel, weel, 
gome ^van is to blame, but it’s not mysel’.” 


22 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 


The many sympathetic expressions were lost to the poor 
wanderer— all drowned iti the howling storm. 

Whither she was going she knew not. Sometimes she 
would pause a moment in some sheltered nook where the 
storm beat less severely, when a policeman would come 
along, nnd issue tlie dread order to “ move on.” 

“Move on!” Where should she go? She continued to 
wander; her reason seemed to have deserted her, and she 
only realized that she must be moving on. 

At last, as she was turning a corner, she ran against 
some one heavily muffled. The blinding snow and be- 
numbed reason had prevented her being aware of the pres- 
ence of any one until she staggered back from the collision, 
and came near falling. 

The man — for it was a man — caught her. The child, 
awakened from its uncomfortable slumber, began to cry, 
which made her realize more fully her situation. 

“ Why, bless my soul — ah, madam, forgive my blunder. 
I— I fear I have hurt your baby,” began the stranger, in 
smooth, oily words, which at once made him known to 
her. 

“ Gass! Hugh Gass! Oh, Heaven!” she ciaed, trying to 
break away from him. 

“What!” cried Gass, “is it you? It is Una — Una Bel- 
mont !” 

“ Let me go— let me go away.” 

“ No— no, Una, you must not,” said Gass, in his passion- 
ate manner. All the smoothness, oiliness, had now been 
displaced by eagerness to accomplish a long-cherished ob- 
ject. “You must not go, you shall not go. I have hunted 
the world over for you since that fearful day when you 
fled ” 

“Oh, let me go — let me go !” 

“No— no— no! Una, listen to me, Una, you are out 
here in the snow alone with your baby. You are but thinly 
clad. Good Heaven, you must suffer! Oh, Una ” 

“Let me go— let me go!” she frantically cried. 

Her voice had lost much of its music ; it sounded hoarse 
and dull on the air. 

“No — no, Una, you must listen to reason,” answered 
Gass, holding fast to her arm. “ You will freeze out in 
the cold. Your father will not take you into his house. 
He has sworn he would not ” 

“ I know it, Hugh Gass; you need not upbraid me ” 

“I am not. I only tell you this that you may listen to 
reason.” 

“ I will not hear you ; let me go !” 

“I cannot; you will perish ” 

“ Then let me die in peace.” 


23 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 

“Oh, Una, you must remember this child, if you have 
no regal'd for yourself. It cannot, it must not perish in 
the storm !” 

He had touched upon a tender chord, and for a moment 
her heart seemed to stand still. Seeing the advantage he 
had gained, the villain went on : 

“If you would only believe me, Una, I am your best 
friend, I was your best friend even when Harry Claren- 
don ” 

“ Hush, monster! Do not mention his name; do not up- 
braid the man I love, the father of my child, even though 
he deceived me.” 

‘ ‘ I never deceived you ” 

“ False villain, you were his ally! If Harry Clarendon 
did wi'ong, I know it was your counsel which drove him 
to it. Away, sir! Let me go! I will take my child and 
travel on until I fall dead before I will accept hospitality 
from a wretch like you?” 

“ Be reasonable, Una ” 

“ I am reasonable. EeleaSe me, or I shall call for help. 
The officers of the law still owe me some protection.” 

“But if you will permit me I will see that you have 
a warm bed for yourself and child.” 

“ I prefer the pavement and a winding-sheet of snow to 
a warm bed at your expense.” 

“You are wild— insane.” 

“Unhand me, sir!” slie cried, breaking away from 
his grasp, and running forward in the blinding storm. 

He started in pursuit of her, shouting; 

“Police! Stop her— stop her!” but ere he had gone 
twenty paces his foot slipped upon the pavement, and he 
fell. 

A policeman coming round the corner heard the cry of 
police, and quickened his pace. He saw a man running, 
and saw him fall. The officer hurried to his side. The fall 
Gass received was a heavy one, and his head striking 
against a lamp-post, he was rendered insensible. When 
the officer reached his side, he raised the insensible man 
from the pavement, and found the blood trickling down 
his head. 

Raising him in his arms, the policeman carried him to 
the well- illuminated window of a saloon and examined his 
head. Gass began to revive almost instantly, and looking 
about, said: 

“Stop her— stop her!” 

Did any one strike you?” asked the policeman, 

“No, no— stop her.” 

“ Are you seriously hurt?” 

“ No; never mind me— stop her!” 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 


S4 


“ Have you been robbed.” 

“No; why don’t you let me alone and catch her?” 

“ Who is she, and what has she done, for which I must 
arrest her?” 

“She — she will freeze to death. She is mad— crazy! 
Stop her, or she and the child will freeze,” said the wily 
Gass. 

The officer, now understanding matters, sprung his 
rattle, and hurried down his beat to arrest the mad flight 
of the woman. Gass coolly wiped the blood and melting 
snow off the side of his head, and said to himself: 

“ I must have her now. She will be forced to obey me 
and become mine. Confound that officer 1 Why don’t he 
arrest her?” 

In the meanwhile Una had fled on, not knowing whither 
she was going. Weak as she was with fasting and a long, 
toilsome walk through the snow, terror seemed to lend 
wings to her flight, and she sped forward at a rate of speed 
which would have surprised her in her sober moments. 

On, on, and on she fled. 

Coming to a vacant lot, she was speeding across it, when 
she struck her foot against something and fell. Her 
strength gave way, and she swooned. The baby began to 
cry. A few minutes later a policeman passing by heard it, 
and came up to both child and mother. There was but 
one thing he could do. Both must be sent to the station- 
house. 

They might perish before an ambulance could be pro- 
cured, so he hailed a ))assing cab, put in the still insensible 
woman and child, and had them taken to the station. 

When Una recovered consciousness, she was lying on a 
rude bed. It seemed clean, and, hard as it was, was as 
comfortable as she had of late been accustomed. She was 
still confused, and saw everytliing as through a cloud of 
smoke. She could not realize where she was, what had 
happened, or who she was. Lying upon the couch, she 
strove hard to collect her scattered faculties. For a long 
time the task seemed impossible, but slowly the awful past 
began to dawn upon her. 

She remembei'ed her baby, and felt about tho bed for it. 
She found it at last, cuddled up in a little warm heap, 
sleeping at her side. Oh, what a relief it was to the young 
mother to know that her child was with her and alive! 
But this joy was crowded out of her mind by the recol- 
lection of having been driven fi’om home, and her awful 
doubts and fears of the future. 

As she became stronger her memory brought to her mind 
the encounter with Gass. She feai’ed the villain; some- 
how she could not help chai'ging Harry’s infidelity to him. 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 


25 


She knew that he must in some way be accountable for 
it. Poor Harry, where was he? She had no knowledge of 
his awful fate on the plains, for it had been part of Gass’ 
plan to make her think he had been unfaithful to her. The 
name of the man she really loved sounded sweet to her 
even yet. She had never rebuked that name, and so great 
was her love, that had he struck her down at his feet, she 
would not have complained. 

Curiosity to know where she was and how she came 
there, kept her awake a long time. Then she felt a little 
thrill of horror at the thought that she might be in Gass’ 
power; but she was soon satisfied by the clanging: of 
chains and the creaking of bolts, as well as the noisy 
clamor of a crowd, somewhere in the building. She knew 
she was in a station-house, and fell asleep. 

She did not wake until late. 

Some one touching her wrist aroused her, and looking 
up, she saw a short, corpulent man, with red flushed face 
and bald head, sitting at her bedside. 

He was a city physician, who had been summoned as 
soon as the insensible woman was brought to the station, 
but had not called until daylight. She could have died a 
dozen times before the worthy M. D. came ; but some peo- 
ple do not die when they seem to prefer death, and Una 
was alive. 

“Oh. you have come to yourself — eh, madam?” said the 
doctor. 

“Yes, sir — where am I?” 

“You are at the police-station, madam — were brought 
here last night, and I have called in to see about having 
you transferred to the hospital.” 

“ There is no need, sir,” said Una. “I assure you I am 
not ill.” 

“ Oh, you are not the judge of that, madam. You were 
found in an insensible condition, and brought here. I am 
more competent to judge of your condition than yourself.” 

He finished examining her pulse, looked at her tongue, 
and then his fat, little brow contracted in awful thought, 
as he made his diagnosis of the case. What that diagnosis 
was Una never knew. The doctor got up in a strange man- 
ner, and left her bedside. 

As she lay there reflecting on her strange position, she 
concluded it would, perhaps, be better to be sent to the 
hospital. It would at least, afford shelter, food, and life for 
herself and child for a few days. 


28 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 


CHAPTER V. 

“ FAREWELL, BABY — FAREWELL FOREVER.” 

When it was announced to Una that she was to be re- 
moved to the hospital she made no objection. She was 
taken that morning to a charity hospital and placed upon 
a bed. her baby at her side. 

Una Avas very Aveak. Her trials had been too much for 
her nerves, and she was almost prostrated for two or three 
days. 

The accommodations given paupers in the best hospitals 
are nothing to boast of. Nurses acquire habits of stern- 
ness which they fail to temper Avith gentleness, and the 
sick Avho need kindness seldom have their little whims 
humored. Una’s baby was taken away from her tAvo or 
three hours at a time, much against her own desire. 

While lying in the hospital she reflected upon the past, 
and planned for the future. She had tried to sustain life 
for herself and child, but so far, even with the aid of her 
jewels, she had failed. Noav she had no resources but her 
own hands. She knew she need never depend upon her 
father, and she knew so little about making a living. Had 
she been born ^or, and learned to toil, she could now Avork 
as a servant. But surely she might put her education to 
some account. Could she not go out in the country and 
teach school? Could she not give music lessons? Could 
she not get a position as copyist, a governess, or many 
other positions Avhich seemed opened to one Avho Avas 
capable of filling them. But to all of these there Avas one 
obstacle. It Avas the baby sleeping on her arm — the very 
object for Avhom these positions Avere to be obtained— the 
object Avhich bound her to this earth. 

Slowly and yet surely the aAvful necessity of parting 
Avith her child dawned upon her mind. At the station and 
hospital she had gone under the assumed name of Emma 
Day. She Avould not have her father know the aAvful fate 
to Avhich he had consigned his daughter, and, besides, she 
hoped to avoid Gass by living in seclusion. Noav, as Emma 
Day, she had determined to place her child, Lillie Day, in 
the orphan asylum as soon as she Avas enabled to do so. 
She convalesced rapidly, and knew that she Avould soon be 
discharged. 

“Oh, darling, darling! hoAv can I give you up?” she 
sobbed, as the baby slumbered against her breast. “But 
I must, if I can get you maintained, my little treasure, 
until I get employment, I can call for you,” and she 
Aviped away her tears, and tried to be happy. 

But what mother could be happy Avith such an ordeal be- 
fore her? Had Una been more accustomed to business, 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 


27 


she would doubtless have hit upon some plan whereby she 
could have kept her child with her, but she w'as almost as 
helpless as the infant. Her great love for her child, and 
her firm belief that it was for its own good, induced her 
to take the step. 

She wished to avoid every one she knew, especially her 
parents and Hugh Gass. If the villain knew she was in 
the city he might continue his persecutions. 

Alas! she did not know that he had traced her to the 
station-house and the hospital, and now waited like a hunT 
gry monster to seize upon her the moment she left the hos- 
pital. 

Ho.spitals— that is. charity hospitals — discharge their 
patients as soon as they can. They never keep them Avhen 
they ought to be out enjoying the fresh air. 

Una was discharged one morning, and taking her baby, 
went out upon the street. She went direct to an orphan 
asylum, where she had made up her mind to leave her 
child. 

There was a red-faced, young man behind a desk writing 
in a book. No one else was visible in the office, and he 
seemed so very busy that he merely nodded his red head 
at a chair, and told Una to be seated. 

“Is the matron in?” asked Una, timidly, after a moment 
of awful silence. 

“Yes. madam; do you wish to see her?” the redheaded 
clerk asked. 

“ Yes, sir,” Una .answered, scarcely able to suppress her 
rising tears, as she looked down upon the face of her babe, 
from which she wms soon to part, perhaps forever. 

The red-headed clerk coolly laid down his pen and went 
out of the office. Now, left alone, Una broke down, 
Iiressed her child to her breast, and burst into tears. 

“Oh, my darling, my darling, how can I — how can I 
part -with you?” she sobbed. 

The baby, unconscious of the fate which awaited itself 
and mother, smiled in her face. 

That smile was bitter mockery to the suffering woman. 
Oh, what years of misery it would bring when she reflected 
on this parting scene ! Her heart was full ; bitter thoughts 
came crowding up too thick for utterance. These moments 
seemed like hours, and yet she thought they were ages. 
Now she longed for the ordeal lo be over, and then she 
dreaded it. Oh, why was her fate so hard? No one but a 
mother can realize what Una’s feelings w'ere as she sat 
in that little dingy looking office, gazing into the face of 
her child. 

Would these people with whom she was about to intrust 


28 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 


her be kind to the darling? Be they ever so kind, they 
could not be a mother to her. 

Each smile from the baby seemed to wring agony from 
her heart. 

She glanced about the building, as if to scrutinize its 
cleanliness, its neatness, and the probability of her child 
being properly cared for. 

An idea, a wild hope, entered her mind. Perhaps she 
could find some employment in the establishment, and 
then she would ever be near her precious darling. 

'‘Oh, if I only could— if I only could!” she said, earn- 
estly, and then breathed a prayer that her request might 
be granted. 

There was little in that narrow office to indicate what 
the establishment might be. She was full of hope, doubt, 
fear, joy, and misery. If the matron would only give her 
employment in her establishment she would be happy be- 
yond comparison. She asked no other boon than to be 
near her child. 

“I cannot part with you, darling — I cannot, I cannot!” 
she sobbed. 

She heard footsteps descending the stairway. A mo- 
ment later the door opened, and a middle-aged woman, 
somewhat embonpoint, entered the apartment. Her face 
was plain, home-like, and inclined to kindness. There was 
nothing crusty or stern about her, and the plump old lady 
seemed kind and gentle. 

She smiled pleasantly at the woman, and said: 

“Good-morning, madam; do you wish to see me?” 

“ Yes, ma’am; are you the matron?” 

“lam,” and the plump old lady, with a business-like 
air, seated herself in front of Una. 

“I have brought my baby here,” said the young 
mother, but her heart was too full to trust herself fur- 
ther. 

The matron looked at her curiously a moment, and 
said : 

“What is your name?” 

“ Emma Day.” 

“ Have you a husband?” 

“No; he is dead.” 

She would not wrong Harry by saying he had deceived 
and deserted her. 

“ Are you utterly unable to maintain your child your- 
self?” 

“I am,” sobbed Una, breaking down at last. “We 
must both perish in the street, for no one will employ me 
with it.” 

The matron nodded her head knowingly, yet kindly, as 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 


20 


though she had seen many such cases before, yet had too 
tender a heart to inform the poor gii-l that she knew she was 
deceiving her. For a few moments there was a silence, 
broken only by the deep sobs of the young mother and the 
loud ticking of the office clock. The red-haired clerk came 
quietly in and resumed his place at the ledger, seeming ut- 
terly oblivious of the agonized mother. So noiselessly did 
he enter that Una was unaware of his presence. 

She was schooling herself for the awful question — the 
question which, if answered affirmatively, would give her 
so much happiness; which, if answered negatively, would 
bring her such unutterable woe. 

The matron, fully understanding the young mother’s 
case, allowed her all the time she wanted, and to take her 
own course in presenting a matter so delicate as the one in 
hand. After a few moments spent in hoping and dread- 
ing, she broke the awful silence by saying : 

“ It is too much of a trial to part altogether from my 
child. Can you not give me some employment about the 
establishment? However humble it may be, I will will- 
ingly accept it.” 

The old matron, after a moment’s silence, shook her head, 
gravely. She sympathized with the poor mother, and 
would do anything in her power to make her burden light, 
but that would be impossible. They already had all the 
nurses and attendants that the establishment could afford. 

“I will work without pay,” sobbed the despairing Una, 
who felt that all the world was growing dark about her. 
“ I ask no recompense, save that I be near my poor baby.” 

The matron smiled kindly, and said : 

“ I can assure you, Mrs. Day, that I feel for you from 
the bottom of my heart, but we could fill our establishment 
to overflowing in an hour, were we to employ mothers un- 
able to take care of their children. It is a precedent we 
dare not set. I hope you understand me, for Heaven knows 
we do not intend to" be unkind. If you will leave your 
child here, we will take care of it for you — will take as 
good care — nay, better than you possibly can, since you 
say you are unable to provide the necessaries of life for it. 
You might get employment somewhere near enough to 
visit it every day.” 

“Oh, my baby— my poor little darling,” sobbed Una, 
“ how can I give you up?” 

The red-haired clerk continued to write as though he was 
deaf to the wild agony of that mother. The clock ticked 
on the same, and the clerk’s pen seemed to keep time 
with it. 

The matron looked very solemn, and yet was unable to 


30 LOST TO THE WORLD. 

help the agonized mother more than she had already sug- 
gested. 

“What can you do?” she finally asked. 

“ I can work,” sobbed Una. 

“What kind of work?” 

“ Any kind. The most menial services ever performed 
by a slave I can do, so that I am kept near my child.” 

“You can surely find some employment near.” 

“Oh, if you would only give me some employment 
here ” 

“It is impossible, young lady,” said the matron, sol- 
emnly. 

“ I could copy, keep books ” 

“ I regret very much to disappoint you, madam,” inter- 
rupted the matron, “ but it makes no difference what your 
qualifications may be, it will be impossible for us to em- 
ploy you. We have all the help we can use now. We will 
take your child upon the proper affidavit being made that 
you are unable to maintain it yourself, and will care for it 
as tenderly as you could yourself. Our nurses are kind, 
with mothers’ hearts, and no child is ever neglected.” 

“ Oh, madam, will you take the best of care of my poor 
little baby?” sobbed Una. 

“Most assuredly we will.” 

“It breaks my heart, lady — it breaks my heart to part 
with her, for I fear it will be forever.” 

“Oh, no; you must not indulge in such gloomy reflec- 
tions. Rather look on the bright side, and think that you 
will return in a few weeks to find your baby grown to a 
bright, rosy-cheeked child.” 

“You will not give it away to others to raise?” 

“ No — no; not so long as its mother lives, and is liable to 
call for it.” 

“ But suppose I should not call? Suppose— I— should- 
die?” 

“ In case of that, we would see that your child had a 
comfortable home in some worthy family, whei*e it would 
have good morals inculcated from early childhood.” 

Una pressed it closer to her breast and sobbed: 

“ It is best for you, little darling; far better than to drag 
you with me through storms and cold as we have gone; 
but, oh! can I ever give you up — can I ever give you up?” 

The mati-on, who heretofore had not made a single sug- 
gestion, now ventured to say: 

“ I think, Mrs. Day, tliat, under the circumstances, it 
would be much better to leave your child with us ” 

“ Oh, do you— do you, madam?” 

“Indeed I do; by your own admission, you ai'e unable to 
care for it yourself. Here it will receive the best of care, 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 


31 


while you. Tinencumbercd, can perhaps find suitable em- 
ployment for which your qualifications fit you. You may, 
in the course of a few weeks or months, be so suited that 
you can take your child yourself and remunerate us for 
keeping it for you.” 

“ Heaven grant I may,” sobbed Una. 

“I think it would be very foolish to start out with a 
child to seek employment. No one would hire you with 
a child. You might get some one to keep it a week for 
you.” 

“ I have not one penny to pay them,” said Una. 

“ Then there is no other alternative, young lady, than to 
place your child in our asylum.” 

“ Will you care for it yourself?” asked Una, anxiously. 

“ No, no, young lady; that will be impossible, as I have 
so many matters to superintend ; but the baby shall liavo 
a competent nurse.” 

“ On, madam,” sobbed Una, “let me see the nurse who 
will have charge of my poor little baby. I want to look 
in her face, and see if she is kind — to hear her say with her 
own mouth that she will ever be a mother to my little 
darling. ” 

This was an extraordinary event at the asylum, though 
the matron tried to make it appear an every-day a If air. 
The plump old lady applied the corner of her snow-white 
cambric to her pink face in a most unbusiness-like manner, 
while she ordered the red-haired clerk to tell Mrs. Moi'timer 
to come down. 

A few moments later a middle-aged, motherly-looking 
woman entered. She was a trifle taller and. a little less 
plump than the matron. 

“ This woman, Mrs. Day, will have the exclusive care of 
your child, ’’said the matron, still wiping her eyes in a most 
\mbusiness-like manner. 

Una arose, clutching her child eagerly to her breast, as 
•she asked the nurse : 

“ Are you a mother?” 

“ Yes, mem; I have two babies in heaven, and a bright 
little boy in school.” 

“ Then you know Avhat it is to part with a child?” 

“Indeed I do, madam,” the nurse replied, her eyes filling 
Avith tears. 

“ I believe you — oh, I believe you, and I will intrust my 
darling with you. Oh, be a mother to her. I will come 
frequently to see her, and you shall have my Avarmest 
prayers. God knows if I ever get able to remember you 
for faithfulness, I will do so. Now I am a heai’t-broken 
Avoman, unable to earn bread for myself and child, but a 
brighter day may come.” 


32 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 


“It will— it will,” the nurse answered, while the tears 
rolled down her cheeks. 

“ Be a mother to her— be a mother to her!” wept Una. 

The matron and nurse were both shedding tears, and the 
scene had got to be so affecting that even the red-haired 
clerk seemed interested. He dropped his pen and gazed at 
the three women in wonder. Never had he seen the matron 
so moved before. 

“ I will— I will,” sobbed the nurse. 

“Oh, my darling, I must give you up!” sobbed Una, 
kissing her baby again and again. 

At last, summoning up all her courage, she laid it in the 
arms of the nurse, and pressing her lips to its cheek, in 
one long kiss she sobbed : 

“ Good-bye, baby ; farewell forever!” and tothu’ed out of 
the office, down the hall, and out upon the street. 


CHAPTER VI. 

THE AWFUL PLUNGE. 

The trial was not yet over. Would that trial ever be 
over to Una Belmont? Certainly not until she had re- 
joined her child once more. She paused a moment at the 
stoop, and leaning on it, burst into tears. Her heart w^as 
full, and she felt that this world was all one great weight 
of woe. 

But we must live in spite of our agony. The very fact 
that we must go on as usual, that the world goes on the 
same, seems to augment our sorrows. Una felt as if she 
had consigned her infant to the tomb. She tried to reason 
with herself that her absence would be only for a few 
days; but that great supernatural dread of the future 
which weighs on the heart bore down her spirits when she 
would bid them rise. Perfect happiness is impossible in 
this world. We are never so happy but that dark recollec- 
tions of the past, or fears for the future, wdll come to mar 
present bliss. While we are human this will naturally 
prevent perfect happiness. Only disembodied spirits real- 
ize the term. 

She felt some one touch her arm. Raising her tear- 
stained face, Una saw the red-haired clerk at her side. 
For once the clerk seemed to have forgotten his business 
manner, and his face, solemn and earnest still, was full of 
sympathy. 

“ I beg pardon, mem,” he said in an awkward manner, 
“ but I heard you tell the matron that you had no money, 
and saying something about a situation. Now I know sit- 
uations ain’t easily found, and it may be days before you 
get one. I thought maybe you would let me lend you a 


33 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 

trifle to keep soul and body together until you get a po- 
sition.” 

The clerk saw she was too sensitive to admit of his mak- 
ing a charitable donation, so he smoothed matters over by 
calling it a loan. He held in his red, freckled hand a five- 
dollar bill. 

“Take it,” he said, “for you will need it. If you 
won’t accept it for your own, do it for the little baby’s 
sake.” 

“Oh, thank you, thank you,” said Una, taking the 
money. “I will take it as a loan. What is your name, 
sir? I will pay it back to you as soon as I can with in- 
terest.” 

“ My name is Jim Wicket, madam, but don’t you give 
yourself any uneasiness about me. Think of yourself and 
your baby first. I’m not rich, but if I never get the money 
back I can live without it.” 

“You are a kind man. You have a heart,” she said, 
earnestly. “ The world, especially the men in it, have been 
so cruel to me, that I began to think th(;y had no hearts. 
Thank Heaven, you are an exception. Promise me, sir, 
that you will look after my baby .” 

“ I will,” said Jim Wicket, earnestly. 

“ I may never come back. Something seems to tell me 
I will never gaze on its face again. Will you watch over 
the baby and care for it? The nurse is kind, but she may 
have other cares and neglect my little darling. Will you 
promise?” 

“ Yes.” 

“Swear it?” 

“ I do; and Jim Wicket, who never broke his word, will 
not violate so sacred a trust.” 

Jim’s red face was growing more crimson, and his cool, 
blue eyes were getting moist. He turned about and left 
her at the stoop. Re-entering the building, he took his 
place behind his desk; but somehow his hand trembled 
and he could not write. He laid down his pen and stepped 
to the door, intending to whisper fresh Avords of encour- 
agement. His manly heart had resolved to sacrifice his 
position as chief clerk to her, that she might be near her 
child ; but when he came to the door, she was gone. He 
gazed up and down the street, but the strange Emma Day 
had disappeared. Better would it have been for Una had 
she remained a few moments longer. 

Summoning up all her strength, she had torn herself 
away from the establishment which contained all that her 
lieart held dear of this earth. Jim Wicket’s good resolu- 
tion, like many others in this world, was made too late. 

Una went to a respectable, though cheap hotel, where 


34 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 


she took a, room for the day. Here she intended to recruit 
her strength and lay her plans. How busy her brain was 
all that day, planning for her child! Her wits seemed 
sharpened in a few hours 'With the experience of years. 

She took her meals in her room, and did not go out until 
the next morning. Her clothing was shabby, and sbe 
knew that she was not prepossessing in appearance. True, 
she retained some of her beauty, but she felt that her beauty 
must be of a suspicious kind. 

The morning was clear and cold when she issued forth 
upon the street to seek employment. The snow had been 
scraped from the pavements, but lay in dirty heaps along 
the streets. 

Wrapping the thin, faded shawl about her, she went to 
a news-stand and bought a paper. Looking over the col- 
umn of “Wants,” she noted two or three places where 
copyists were needed. Noting the number of one, she 
folded the newspaper under her arm, and set out to find it. 

It was a long walk, but the recollection that it was for 
baby Lillie made the journey seem short. She reached the 
house, was carried up in an elevator, and showed by the 
l3oy the office of the man who had put the advertisement 
in the paper. 

She knocked timidly, and a gruff voice said : 

“ Come in.” 

Una opened the door and entered. Her heart almost 
sank at sight of a large, heavily-bearded lawyer, with 
head slightly bald, sitting at a desk, talking to two busi- 
ness-looking men. 

“Be seated,” said the lawyer, in a gruff tone. 

She obeyed him, and waited until her patience seemed 
almost exhausted. At last the two business men were dis- 
charged. They started to the door, still talking on some 
complicated matter, and there paused and talked. One 
came back to the lawyer’s desk, as if to have the chat all 
over again. Her heart in a flutter, Una could only wait. 

“Oh, why don’t they go?” she asked herself. 

After a long time they went away, and the lawyer, fix- 
ing his keen gray eyes upon her, said : 

“Well, what can I do for you?” 

“I saw your advertisement, sir, for a copyist.” 

“ Oh, yes— oh, yes; well, the work is all taken. A young 
man called two hours ago, and is now engaged on it.” 

“ Then you have no work for me?” 

“No miss, nothing;” and he turned to his books, while 
she sorrowfully took her departure. 

The next place she called was the office of a commercial 
agent. The agent himself, a small, spare-made man, with 
gold-rimmed glasses mounted on his nose, was in. When 


LOST TO THE WORLD 


85 


made acquainted with the object of lier visit he de- 
manded, in a sharp, shrill tone, her recommendations. 

“ I have none,” said Una, sadly. “ I know no one here 
to recommend me ; but if you will let me, I will show you 
a specimen of my workmanship.” 

“ I couldn’t think, young lady, of employing any one in 
my establishment without recommendations,” said the 
shrill-voiced agent. 

She left his office. As she went about from place to 
place, and was rejected first on one and then another pre- 
text, her heart sank within hei\ Bitter tears some- 
times gathered in her eyes as she received sharp rebukes. 

One by one the list of places were visited, and as yet 
there was no one to give her that employment which would 
support life for herself and child. 

When night came she returned to her hotel. Exhausted 
and disheartened, she ate a light supper, and then praying 
for better success on the morrow, went to bed. 

The next day was warmer. The snow melted from the 
streets, filling the gutters with running water and cross- 
ings with mud and slush. For a few days, though it was 
in the month of January, the weather was balmy like 
spring. The snow passed away, and the streets were 
dry. 

Poor Una continued her seai’ch for employment with no 
better success than before. She searched the morning 
papers for notices of “ Wants.” She exhausted the list of 
those wanting copyists; then sought employment as 
governess, nurse, waiting-maid, music-teacher, house- 
servant, dining-room girl, and chamber-maid. 

One after another were denied her, and again and again 
she was rejected until she came to expect it. One place 
only was offered her, and she was to work simply for her 
board. 

If they would permit her to bring her child, the situation 
would be gladly accepted. But at the mere mention of her 
child, she was told she would not do, and went away. 

The small stock of money furnished her by Jim Wicket 
was almost exhausted, and she was thoroughly disheart- 
ened. She had no resources now, and after the next day 
would not have a penny. 

“God have mercy on me!” she groaned, as she walked 
hurriedly along a dark street, toward the little hotel one 
evening. It had long since been dark, and she now fran- 
tically hurried from street to street, door to dooi’, not 
knowing where she was, begging for work to sustain life. 
Many looked upon her as a mad woman, and otheis 
hastened to close the door upon her, as though she were a 


36 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 


loathsome thing, who would contaminate all with whom 
she came in contact. 

Una had some awful thoughts on that evening, as she 
hastened down the dark streets. The great question witli 
lier was whether it were better to endure the ills and tor- 
ments of this life, or by one bold plunge into the dark 
river which rolled before her, end all and fly to others she 
knew not of. “ To be or not to be?” was the question. 

She had lost all hope of honestly sustaining life. It 
seeemed to her that the doors of honesty and virtue were 
closed against her. She felt that in the eyes of the world 
she was an object to be loathed and hated by the upright. 

True, a life of sin, with all its hideous glare and flashing 
diamonds, was open for her, but she turned appalled from 
the thought. Death a thousand times was preferable. 

“Father in heaven, forgive me, and care for my poor 
child !” she murmured, as she staggered along the street, 
her brain benumbed by the fearful resolution she had 
taken. 

She did not observe the man who was watching her from 
the other side of the street. He halted, keeping his eye 
on Una, as she hastened along the opposite side of the 
street. 

“ I may be mistaken,” said the stranger, iii smooth, oily 
tones, as he rubbed his hands together, “but I believe that 
is Una — ha! ha! ha!— Miss Belmont. She has eluded me 
for some time, but I’ve been on her trail, and I’m sure I’ve 
found her. I’ll just wait until she passes under the light 
of that street lamp. I will make assui’ance doubly sure.” 

The man, who was none other than Hugh Gass, satisfied 
himself as to Una’s identity, and then crossing the street, 
quickened his pace until he came up to her side. 

“ Miss Belmont,” he said, laying his hand on her wrist, 
“ stop a moment.” 

“You here? Good heavens, let go my hand, you vil- 
lain !” 

“Wait a moment. Miss Belmont,” said the villain. 
“ Why treat me as you do? I have never sought to wrong 
you. I have ever been your friend, Una, and will be in 
spite of all your efforts to cast me aside. Listen to me. I 
know that you have been ill, that you were at the hospital, 
and that your child is at an orphan asylum. If you love 
that child, do not refuse the protection I offer you both. 
The whole world is against you save myself. You cannot 
exist without me.” 

“Then, sir, I will cease to exist!” cried the agonized 
girl. 

“ But your child?” 

“ I leave it to the care of Heaven. The sins of its 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 


37 


mother cannot fall upon one so pure. Unhand me, 
villain! If I have hestitated before, I will do so no 
longer.” 

She broke away from him and fled down the street 
toward the river. 

For a moment Gass stood baffled and confused. He had 
misjudged Una’s spirit. Poverty and misfortune could I 
not humble her. Then he remembered the obscure threat' 
she had made, and started in pursuit of her. But he was 
too late. Already she had disappeared. 

Una ran with the speed of a roe, filled with a terrible 
resolve. The street was dark and almost deserted. There 
was no one to save her now. The great dark river is in 
sight. She hears the wash of waves, and now she is on a 
long pier extending far out into the water. A steamship, 
ocean bound, is passing. She heeds it not, but, halting at 
the far end of the pier, cried : 

“ God in Heaven, have mercy on my child!” 

There was a fearful splash, and the dark waves closed 
over Una Belmont. 


CHAPTER VH. 

THE WOODEN-LEGGED SAILOR. 

A MAN was limping down the dark street, and had 
almost reached the pier as the magnificent ocean steamer 
came down the bay. He wore sailors’ trousei-s, jacket and 
cap, and was beyond a doubt a sailor. His wooden leg, 
however, would prevent his ever going to the foretop with 
the celerity of yore ; but like an old salt, the sight of the 
grand steamer cleaving the water down the bay filled him 
with enthusiasm. 

“It’s the Sea Gull on her voyage,” said the wooden- 
legged sailor; “and, shiver my timbers, if it doesn't do 
my old heart good to see her. Ye-ho ! my hearties ! Ben 
Thompson would cheer ye if ye could hear his voice. If it 
wasn’t so dark ye couldn’t see my pennant, I’d float it at 
my mast-head.” 

At this moment he heard a wail go up on the air: 

“ Gocl in heaven, have mercy on my child !" 

It w’as not loud, but seemed to come from the outer end 
of the deserted dock. The sailor seemed to see some one 
there, but so dimly that not even the outlines could be 
clearly defined. The voice was the voice of a woman, and 
she was evidently in distress. 

Ben Thompson, like a true Jack Tar, had a warm heart 
in his bosom ; and, assured that some one was in distress, 
hastened forward as fast as he could. 


38 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 


He had not gone half a dozen paces on the dock before 
he heard a loud splash. 

“Ship ahoy !” shouted Ben, now wild with excitement. 
“ Man overboard— woman overboard — child overboard — 
lay to and lower the long boat!” 

He ran down to the end of the dock as fast as his wooden 
leg would permit him, but when he got tliere no one was to 
be seen. He looked over into the dark waters, but even 
his experienced eyes could discover nothing save the dash- 
ing tide, sweeping seaward. 

On the dock, near the outer end, lay some small, white 
fabric. He picked it up. It Avas a handkerchief. 

“She’s drowned herself, an’ child, too,” groaned Ben. 
“Good Heaven! can't I git help an’ save her y it?” The 
kind-hearted old salt ran about the dock, the handkerchief 
in his hand, shouting “ Man overboard,” until the police- 
man on duty came down. 

“Helloa, sir, what’s the matter?” demanded the officer. 

“There’s a man, or, rather, a Avoman overboard,” said 
the old sailor. The officer then inquired the particulars 
about it, and Ben informed him all he kneAv. After an 
hour or two’s delay, some of the river police were brought 
to the dock and fished about in the water for tAvo or three 
hours, without success. The sergeant in charge of the 
police-boat gave it as his opinion that the body had been 
carried out to sea by the swift out-going tide. There Avas 
no doubt from the first that the delay had been so long that 
there could be little hope of recovering the poor unfortu- 
nate alive. 

“ Shiver my timbers,” said Ben Thompson, as he stumped 
about on the dock, brushing the gathering moisture from 
his eyes, “if I wouldn’t a liked to hev had my other leg; 
I’d a got here soon enough to hev picked her up, or caught 
a glimpse o’ her sailin’ out wi’ the tide. But I guess the 
craft’s foundered or gone to pieces on the breakers, and 
thar’s not a spar or sail left to indicate her name.” 

But Ben happened at this moment to remember the hand- 
kerchief. He had forgotten to give it to the policeman as 
a clew ; and now that they could not find the body, and 
seemed to doubt his veracity in regard to any one falling 
off the dock, he concluded he would keep the handkerchief 
himself. 

“ I’ll ’bout ship, put in port, and overhaul the cargo she 
left behind,” he finally said. 

Ben carried his nautical threat into execution, and soon 
Avas at his OAvn humble abode. The handkerchief he had 
thrust in the inside pocket of his jacket. Peggy Thompson, 
the sailor’s Avife, Avas well knoAvn in her part of the toAAui. 
Long before Ben lost his leg by an accident on shipboard, 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 


89 


and gave up the ocean to be wharf -master at the dock, his 
wife had lived in the same humble home. 

“Well, Ben, did ye git down in time to see the Sea Gull 
leave port?” asked Peggy, as she met her husband at the 
door. 

“Yes, Peggy; an’ I got there jest in time to see some 
one else leave port. Not only the port o’ New York, but 
the port o’ this world, an’ start on a voyage fur eternity.” 

“What d’ye mean, Ben?” asked Peggy, her eyes wide 
open with horror. 

“ I got down to the dock jest as the Sea Gull was steam- 
in’ past. Then I heard some one all of a sudden cry out : 

“ ‘God in heaven hev mercy on my child!’ and there 
was a splash. I jest crowded all sail fur the spot, but didn’t 
git there in time to see her. She’d sunk, or been carried 
out so fur to sea by the tide afore I got there, that she was 
lost to sight. At last, after heatin’ about a long time, I got 
a policeman alongside, and he got out the river police, but 
none o’ it done any good. The poor thing was gone on her 
last voyage. I hope she’ll git to the right port.” 

“ Didn’t ye see her, Ben?” 

“Jest only caught a glimpse o’ her as she went over. It 
was nothin’ more’n a shadder in the dark.” 

“Poor thing!” 

“She was young, and a mother, too.” 

“ How d’ye know that, if ye couldn’t see her?” 

“ She called to Heaven to have mercy on her child, and 
her voice told me she was young.” 

“And didn’t ye find nothin’ whereby ye could tell who 
she was?” 

“No; not a single spar or shroud o’ canvas — yes, I did, 
too. Maybe this’ll tell somethin’ about who or what she 
is.” 

He pulled from his jacket-pocket, as he spoke, the hand- 
kerchief he had found upon the end of the dock. It was a 
plain, white cambric handkerchief, and on one corner was 
embroidered in white silk floss the single word “Una.” 
The sailor and his wife both looked at it with the greatest 
interest. 

There was nothing more to indicate who she was, or 
what she had been. “Una ” was all. Una who? they did 
not know. The old sailor and his wife talked a long time 
over the event, but came to no definite conclusion. The 
next morning Ben Thompson wended his way to the police- 
station to see if the body had been recovered. He was sent 
to the Morgue, but only one was there — that was the body 
of a negro, which had been fished out of the North River. 

There was no clew to indicate to the Avooden-legged 
sailor who the mysterious “ Una ” was. To use his own 


40 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 


expression, he steered for home ; and when he was in his 
house, he and Peggy held a long consultation. They con- 
cluded that nothing could be done, and they might as well 
keep the handkerchief — the only relic of the unknown sui- 
cide— themselves. If left with the police officers, it would 
be thrown aside, and never seen or heard of again. 

Ben Thompson was not one of the ordinary sailors, who 
spend their money as fast as it is made. Without being 
miserly, he was economical, and had saved enough to keep 
him and his wife in their old age. They were childless; 
and as they neared that dreaded period in life when both 
should be helpless and dependent on the love and mercy of 
others, they felt the want of that blessing of old age-^e-. 
scendants. Ben and his wife had for some time been talk- 
ing of adopting some bright-eyed baby from the orphan 
asylum. 

“ There’s plenty children turned adrift in this port with- 
out sail, mast, or rudder,” Ben said; “and out o’ all o’ 
them we ought to find one we Avould be willing to take 
aboard and furnish cabin-passage through life.” 

Mrs. Thompson was of the same opinion, though she ex- 
pressed it in less nautical terms. And the result was, Ben 
concluded to pay a visit to the orphan asylum, and select 
some little waif who might stand in need of foster parents. 

It happened that Ben and his wife called at the asylum 
where Una had left her baby, a few weeks after that event. 
The matron had waited patiently for the mother’s return, 
but she came not. There was rumor of a young woman 
drowning herself, and she began to fear that the suicide 
was the child’s mother. Her conduct had been so queer at 
the time, that she at last saw through it all. 

When the sailor and his wife came, they selected little 
Lillie Day. The matron hesitated about giving her up, 
but as the good people had satisfactory proofs of their 
ability to care for the little foundling, also of good char- 
acter, there was no excuse. 

“ Madam,” said Jim Wicket, the red-haired clerk, “I 
hope you won’t let that child go.” 

“ Why?” asked the matron. 

“ Because I promised the young woman who left it here 
that I would watch over it for her.” 

“But, Jim, under the rules of the establishment, we 
can’t keep it longer. She violated our rules by leavin’ it, 
without making the proper affidavit that she was unable 
to maintain it.” 

“She left in such a flurry, I’m sure she forgot it.” 

“ But she’s never come back. If you want the child you 
can take it yourself, Jim, but— but, accordin’ to the rules 
of the establishment, we’ll be bound to put it out.” 


LOF^T TO THE WORLD. 


41 


Jim Wicket scratched his red head. He was a single 
man, with a salary hardly sufficient to maintain himself, 
let alone the additional expense of a baby. He began to 
give in to the stern matron, but when he remembered the 
agonized face of the young mother, he concluded to see the 
sailor and his wife himself. 

“Are you going lo take this child away?” he asked old 
Ben. 

“ That’s the intent, providin’, however, that all’s square, 
and we kin leave port with a clear log-book,” answered 
Ben. 

“ I just wish to make one request,” said Jim. 

“ What is it, shipmate?” 

“When the mother of that baby left it here, I saw the 
poor heart-broken creature. Her face was pale as death, 
and, with tears streaming down her cheeks, she begged me 
to look after it until she returned. I swore I would do so. 
I am poor and unable to take care of the little thing my- 
self, but I want you to promise me that you will allow me 
to come and see it regularly, to look after it, see that it 
want s for nothing, and make it such presents as I am able 
to give.” 

“ Why, of course, shipmate,” said old Ben; “who could 
object to anything so fair as that? Come to my port any 
time you like, and ye’ll alius be welcome.” 

He drew from his pocket the same cambric handkerchief 
he had found on the dock to wipe his face. 

“ Sir, where did you get that?” asked the clerk. 

“What?” asked Ben. 

‘ ‘ The handkerchief ?” 

The sailor explained how he had come into possession of 
it on the dock, where some unfortunate woman had com- 
mitted suicide. 

Jim Wicket staggered back, as if he felt a keen blo^v^ on 
the face. 

“Why, mate, what’s the matter wi’ ye?” asked the 
sailor. “Ye look as if ye had been caught in a sudden 
gale.” 

“ That woman was the poor baby’s mother,” said Jim. 
“ I saw this same handkerchief in the hands of the young 
lady who brought the child here, and I noticed particularly 
the name ‘Una’ worked with white silk floss on the cor- 
ner, though it wasn’t the name she gave here.” 

“My young mate,” said old Ben, rising, with strong 
emotions swelling his honest breast, “lam glad to know 
that I have found the poor girl’s child. I heard her cry: 
‘ God in Heaven have mercy on my child !’ and if I war to 
refuse to take it now, I would be unworthy the name of a 


42 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 


sailor. If you want to hover round the port, and occa- 
sionally come aboard to see the waif, you can do so.” 

It wfis arranged for the sailor and his wife to take the 
baby with them. Thus Una’s child found a home with the 
only man who had witnessed her suicidal plunge into the 
deep. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

A STRANGE DISCOVERY, 

The Ocean Star was one of the largest ocean steamers 
which, at the time of our story, entered the port of New 
York. Captain Adolph Simms, mastei’, was regarded as 
one of the best sailors who trod a plank. The vessel should 
liave left her pier about the same time the Sea Gull did, or 
a short time afterward, but for some reason inexplicable to 
the passengers, and quite provoking to the captain, she 
was delayed four or five horn’s. At last the cause of the de- 
lay, whatever it was. was romoved, and late at night the 
vessel steamed out of port. 

Tlie harbor presented a beautiful sight to the few who 
remained at this late hour on the deck of the out-going 
vessel. The wintei-’s night was mild. On either side of 
the river was a city. The millions of lights formed a grand 
illumination. In the distance, New York looked like a 
fairy-land, the portals of which were fast receding in the 
distance. No picture in beauty or elegance could surpass 
this night view. 

Tlie ship might be quitting that shore forever. Her 
many passengers might find a w'atery grave in mid-ocean. 
Tlie Manhattan Isle is passed, and th& noble ship sweeps 
by Governor’s Island. Through the starlight, the fort, 
with its grim-looking cannon, looms up on the larboard. 
The lights from Brooklyn and Jersey City sparkle in the 
distance. 

The hai'bor is filled with puffing tug-boats, steam ferries, 
yachts, and sail ships. Through this mass of moving ves- 
sels the Ocean Star, under the guidance of the skillful 
pilot, picks her way seaward. 

Late as is the hour, two gentlemen passengers are on the 
quarter-deck, somewhat muffled, to prevent dampness or 
chill. It cannot be anxiety to catch a last glimpse of the 
fading shore that keeps them up at this late hour; for 
the ship has passed Sandy Hook, and still they pace the 
deck. 

They converse in a low tone, doubtless upon some mat- 
ter of business. As they pass beneath the ship’s lanterns, 
we can see that they both possess fine, noble faces, and 
are men approaching that period in life called middle age. 


LOST TO THE WORl.D. 43 

Tlic fine face of one is that of an actor, as can be well 
seen by the vehemence of his expressions. The other, one 
could at once see, was that fine combination between art 
and business, which goes to make up the business manager. 
Although he possessed fine business qualifications and 
some excellent judgment, there was that recklessness in 
his nature whicli made him a speculative man. Julius 
Morgan was a man to risk his all on a venture, and if he 
won would reap abundant harvest, and if he failed would 
lose all. His companion was more cautious, though pos- 
sessing but little business tact, as most actors do. He Avas 
a firm friend and old acquaintance of the manager, and had 
frequently differed with him, without avail, in some of his 
reckless adventures. 

“My dear Morris, our American tour was not altogether 
a failure,” said the nianager; “and yet it was far from a 
success. The American people are not an appreciative 
people.” 

“1 fear, Morgan, you do Americans an injustice,” re- 
turned the actor. “ You know your star failed as a .star 
in England, and you only counted on the stupidity of 
Americans to palm him off on them. ” 

Morgan bit his lip Avith vexation, and said : 

“Well, AA'ell, what you say may have some truth in it, 
since the star says so himself. What’s done can’t be un- 
done. Suppose Ave turn in, as the sailors term it. It must 
be long since past midnight.” 

“lam willing, and yet this clear Avinter evening seems 
quite a temj)tation to keep one on deck all night. That 
other vessel, the Sea Gull, must be so far away that we, 
in all probability, Avill not get sight of her agaim” 

The two men turned about to go below, when siiddenly 
Morgan seized his companion’s arm, and pointing over the 
guiiAvale at the water, cried : 

“ My God !— see ! What’s that?” 

“Where?” 

“ In the AA’ater ! Look I” 

There Avas something floating on the AA^ave— a dark ob- 
ject, past Avhich the vessel AA'as rapidly gliding. It Avas 
not half a dozen oars’-lengths from the ship, and was being 
rapidly borne out to the ocean by the tide. 

At first it Avas so dark that Morris could not make it out. 
but anori it glided aft until the rays from the ship’s power- 
ful lantern fell upon it. 

Then both men started back \A’ith exclamations of hor- 
ror; and well they might. The object was a hen-coop, on 
which lay the head and shoulders of a Avoman. The lower 
limbs, which seemed to have been forced doAvn through 
the floating coop, Avere submerged in water. Her long, 


44 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 


dark, damp hair was spread out over the old rotten hen- 
coop, and the rays of the ship’s lantern fell upon her 
ghastly white face. 

Before either of them could utter a word, the officer of 
the watch cried: 

“ Man overboard ! Man overboard !” 

The pilot heard the cry, and instantly signaled the en- 
gineer to stop his engine. 

The captain had not yet gone to his bunk. He was in 
the cabin conversing with some ladies and gentlemen, who 
were too nervous on their departure to retire. As soon as 
the powerful propeller stopped, the captain started up in 
alarm. The officer of the watch entered and ^yhispered in 
his ear: 

A hen-coop has been sighted, with a woman on it.'’ 

‘ ‘ My God !” said the captain. Then seeing that his words 
occasioned some alarm, he added : 

“Ladies and gentlemen, be not alarmed. It's nothing 
to occasion serious alarm, I assure you.” 

He hurried up on deck. The passengers knew there 
must be something more than he would have them think, 
to call forth such an earnest exclamation from the cap- 
tain. 

Notwithstanding the captain’s injunction to remain be- 
low, men and women muffied themselves in cloalcs and 
coats and wraps, and hastened up on deck. 

The vessel had been stopped, and a great light, with a 
powerful i-eflector, arranged, so as to throw its rays out 
over the water in their wake. The passengers, who had 
come up from below, crowded the after-deck. The broad 
glare of light lit up tlie bounding waves and fell upon the 
hen-coop, now drifting some distance in their wake. Lying 
across a part of the coop, with her lower limbs submerged, 
but her shoulders and arms on the fz’ame*work, was a young 
and beautiful woman. Her damp, black hair was spread 
out over the wood-work, and her white, motionless face 
seemed to appeal to them foi help, though slie was silent 
and motionless as if dead. 


CHAPTER IX. 

“YOU ARE BOUND FOR LIVERPOOL.” 

The great propeller of the steamer was motionless, and 
the dark object, with the pale-faced form on it, seemed 
gliding further away. 

The ladies uttered cries and lamentations when they 
espied the white-faced girl, with her long, damp hair spread 
out over the hen-coop and water. 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 


45 


“ Watch ahoy !” cried the captain. “Lower the long- 
boat and pick up the body.” 

The long-boat was run down from its davits and manned 
with half a dozen sailors. The captain himself went in 
charge. 

At a few oar-strokes -the boat darted through the water 
to the side of the hen-coop. The pale and apparently life- 
less form was with some diflBculty extricated from the tan- 
gled mazes of the hen-coop and placed in the boat. 

Whether she was drowned or merely insensible was not 
known. The captain supported her head, and Avhen the 
side of the vessel was reached was ready to assert thatlife 
was extinct. 

She was hoisted to the deck all cold and dripping. 

“ It’s a woman,” sighed a sympathetic passenger. 

“ A mere girl,” said anothei*. 

‘ ‘ How beautiful !’' 

“ Oh, what a pity, what a pity!” sobbed a kind old lady, 
rubbing her hands in grief. 

“ She probably drowned herself,” some one whispered, 

“ Is she dead?” 

“ Oh, yes; to be sure.” 

“Here, Jack, Wade,” said the captain to two sailors, 
“bear her to the spare berth in the forwai'd cabin, and tell 
the doctor to come at once.” 

Tlie sailors obeyed. 

“ Is she dead, captain,” the passengers asked. 

“ I don’t know,” was the answer. “ She has been in the 
water or on it so long that she may be chilled to death. I 
don’t think she is drowned.” 

“You think it possible she may be resuscitated?” 

“Yes, I think so, but I do not know. The doctor soon 
will.” 

“ Do you think she was wrecked, and climbed on the 
coop?” 

“Well, shipmate, I’m off my bearin’s, but from the 
trouble we had gettin’ her out, she seemed to have jumped 
I'ight down into the hen-coop, and was held so last she 
couldn’t a drowned without it capsized, nor could she a got 
out without help. ” 

“It’s a very singular case,” said Morgan. 

“Very, sir. I’ve sailed these waters for years, and 
never found a girl clewed to a hen-coop before this.” 

Morgan and Morris went below with the othei’s. Tiiey 
were both too much interested in the mysterious castaway 
to think of retiring. 

An hour passed, and manj^ of the passengei’s were still 
in the cabin, and eager inquiries and whispers went from 
lip to lip. 


46 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 


“Has anyone heard the doctor’s report yet?” Morgan 
asked of an elderly gentleman. 

“ Yes, sir,” was the answer. 

“ What is it?” 

“ He says there is some life there, but it may yet be im- 
possible to resuscitate her.” 

“Then she was not drowned?” 

“ No, no,” the grave old gentleman answered, taking his 
glasses from off his nose, folding them with care, and put- 
ting them in his vest-pocket. ‘ ‘ She has been so thoroughly 
chilled that life is almost extinct. The doctor thinks she 
has been insensible for a long while— perhaps for hours.” 

“ For hours— is it possible?” 

“ Well, I beard that he said so ; it is only a rumor.” 

The most intense anxiety for the stranger was evinced 
by a majority of the passengers. “How came she on the 
hen-coop?” was a puzzling question. Each had a theory, 
and their theories were too varied and absurd to be given 
place here. 

Eeports from the sick-room, as the forward state-room 
was called, were encouraging. , 

The ship’s doctor thought that signs of life were becom- 
ing more apparent, and he dared hope she would yet sur- 
vive.. There was danger yet, he said, and all depended on 
the most extraordinary cave. 

All night long the doctor labored with his patient. He 
was an old man, conscientious and skillful. When he gazed 
into that pale, sweet young face, and marked the lines of 
suffering on it, he murmured : 

“ Poor girl, poor girl!” and he sighed as he made warm 
applications to the body and tried to pour stimulants down 
the throat. A passenger, who was also a physician, vol- 
unteered his assistance, and the two slept none that night. 

“ I fear she is dead,” said the passenger doctor, when he 
observed how rigid she was. 

“ No, sir,” the ship’s doctor answered. “ There’s a little 
warmth about the heart, and I know there must be some 
life there, if we can only bring it back.” 

The old sea-dog had seen too many cases like the present 
to be deceived ; still his experience would not make him 
too hopeful, even when the spark of warmth began to 
spread over the body. 

“You were right, doctor,” said the passanger physician. 
“She certainly will recover. In a few moments the cir- 
culation will be resumed.” 

“Don’t be certain, sir,” said the ship’s doctor, who, 
though he had learned not to despair, was yet too old in the 
business of resuscitation to fix hopes on uncertainties. 
“ There’s great danger yet, and will be for some time. 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 47 

Even if restored to consciousness, lier long exposure will 
in all probability bring about a dangerous illness.” 

“ Has she swallowed the stimulant?” 

“No.” 

All had been done that could, and now they must await 
tihe result. The night wore away very slowly to the patient 
watchers: As day began to dawn over the cleep, the ship’s 
doctor placed a small mirror upon the mouth of the un- 
conscious girl. After a few moments he removed it, and 
both were rejoiced to see it contained a slight moisture. 
Then there was respiration. 

“ Suppose, doctor, we try the stimulants again?” sug- 
gested the passenger. 

“I think it a good idea,” the ship’s doctor answered. 

He took up the glass of brandy and poured some of it 
down her throat. After an unconscious gasp she swallowed 
a small portion of the liquid. 

“That is good,” said the ship’s doctor. “Unless I am 
very much mistaken we shall have some beneficial effects 
from this soon.” 

He was correct. A few minutes later there was a gasp. 
Thus encouraged, they rubbed her body vigorously to re- 
new the circulation. Another gasp — another and another, 
with long intervals between them, 

“She IS getting along splendidly,” the doctors said, and 
after a few moments they administered another stimulant. 

Her breathing now became more regular. The breast 
began to heave gently, and wrapping her up with warm 
blankets, she was left to herself for some time. 

The two physicians, however, stood by her bedside, and 
as the sunlight streamed in on that pale face, they noted a 
tinge of color returning. 

There came a gentle tap at the door of the state-room. 
The captain stood without, and half a dozen anxious pas- 
sengers were in his wake. 

“ How is she?” was the general inquiry, in an undertone, 
as if they all dreaded the answer. 

“ Better,” was the answer. 

“ Will she live?” 

“She is alive yet, but must be kept quiet,” said the 
doctor. “If there is any decided change in her, you shall 
all be notified.” 

“Is she conscious.” 

“No.” 

“ Has she been?” 

“No; and I cannot say when she will,” said the doctor, 
closing the door on tliem. 

A ship’s doctor must be firm, even at the risk of being 


48 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 


called tyrannical. He, with his assistant, now gave all his 
attention to the patient. 

She breathed more regular, and the color came and went 
in her face. It was no part of their design to arouse her, 
for she seemed to have fallen into a light slumber. 

They sat and watched every symptom with the deepest 
interest. The doctor took her wrist again to feel the pulse, 
and she made a feeble effort to draw it away. This was an 
indication that the nervous system had resumed duty. At 
last, there being a slight noise occasioned by the closing of 
a door, she started and her eyes opened. 

The stare could hardly be said to be one of consciousness. 
She looked in the face of the doctor at ner bedside, a few 
moments, but there was a blankness about that look. After 
a moment her eyes closed again, and for an hour she 
seemed sleeping. The great fear of the doctors now was, 
that her lower limbs were paralyzed, by being so long in the 
extremely cold water. 

After an hour, she opened her eyes again ; and, though 
she seemed feverish and weak, her eyes wandered about 
the state-room with a look of consciousness. 

“ Do you feel better?” the doctor asked, taking her wrist 
in his hand. 

“I don’t know,” Avas the feeble answer. “What has 
happened? Who are you?” 

“ Don’t be alarmed, my dear girl. I am the doctor, and 
will take care of you. You will soon be well again.” 

“ But what has happened?” 

“You must not talk now. You shall know all soon.” 

There was a long silence, during which the convalescent 
seemed to be puzzling her brain. At last she said, in a 
clear, intelligent manner : 

“I cannot keep silent, sir. It will do me more injury 
than to know the truth. Where am I?” 

S “On board the steamship, the Ocean Star. You are 
bound for Liverpool,” the doctor answered. 


CHAPTER X. 

MR. MORGAN, MANAGER. 

The news that the strange waif had regained her con- 
sciousness, and as yet had shown no alarming symptoms, 
soon spread to the deck. It was there gladly received. 
Those who had retired to rest before she Avas picked up 
were made acquainted with the fact that a woman had 
been found floating on a hen-coop, and she Avas soon the 
topic of conversation all over the ship. 

Messrs. Morgan and Morris paced the quarterdeck arm- 
in-arm, regardless of the rolling of the vessel. Both of 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 


49 


them liad been on tlie water too often to feel any of the ill 
effects experienced by those unaccustomed to ocean travel. 

“I would like veiy much to see her, Morris,” said Mr. 
Morgan. “She is so interesting that slie must possess 
talent.” 

“My dear Morgan,” said the actor, with a laugh, “if 
you have made such an egregious mistake in regard to a 
live actor, how do you suppose you can judge the ability 
of a dead actress?” 

“Well, well, it seems, Morris, that you have but one 
string to your harp. You certainly never play but one.” 

“ It is simply ridiculous, Morgan, to talk of the ability 
of one to act whose voice you never heard, whose eyes you 
never saw, and whom you never yet saw make a gesture.” 

“ She has the figure, beauty, and youth for an act- 
ress ” 

“ Yes, so may a doll; but of what worth are they without 
life to express the emotions? I think you had better defer 
proposing an engagement to her until you more fully com- 
prehend her ability. It may be a failure equal to your 
American tour.” 

“ Oh, Morris, I’m not so foolish as that,” said the mana- 
ger petulantly. “ I don’t even know that she has any as- 
piration for the stage or capability, I shall not leap blindly 
into anything.” 

That morning their harbor pilot, who had taken them 
out, left them, boarding the small pilot-boat that was in 
waiting for him. The invalid was not able to be seilt back 
to New York, even if she had expressed a desire to that 
effect. The ship’s doctor declared that she must remain 
under his care, and that a removal from the ship would be 
dangerous. For fear she might have some anxious friends 
in the city who would be eager to know of her, the captain 
sent a notice for the morning papers, giving an account of 
how she bad been picked up by his vessel, which the pilot 
lost— at least it never reached the press. 

The Ocean Star, now clear of the port, sailed on over the 
bounding wave. There was the usual amount of sea-sick 
ness and complaints on board for the first two or three 
days. Passengers kept below. Every body seemed gloomy 
and sullen. Then a rain set in, which lasted two days 
longer. 

It was one of those cold, bleak, chilly rains, which can 
only be experienced at sea. The air seemed to pierce the 
bone and tveeze the marrow. The ship's cabin was com- 
fortable, of course, but few ladies and gentlemen occupied 
it. All seemed to prefer their state-rooms to even the cabin. 
The sea was rough, and the ship rolled about in a manner 
frightful to novices in sea- travel. 


50 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 


The rain changed to sleet and then to snow, and the voy- 
age promised to be not only a long, but very disagreeable 
one. 

On the sixth day out, however, the sky cleared up, and 
the sun set bright, and even warm. The next morning 
was as balmy and lovely as early spring. The ship was 
made snug, her decks swept clean, and she bowled away 
through the water at a good lively rate of speed. Contrary 
winds had driven her somewhat out of her course and 
greatly retarded her progress, but now she was making up 
for lost time. 

Mr. Julius Caesar Morgan, the theatrical manager, was 
out on deck early. He loved fresh air and the glorious 
sunshine. He had in the disagreeable Aveather of the past 
few days almost entirely forgotten the waif picked up from 
the sea ; so had all the others. The doctor had reported 
her doing well. Her strange story was not told to the 
passengers and crew. The doctor had forbidden her to 
talk. 

With the soothing assurance that at the proper time they 
Avould learn all about the mysterious affair, the passengers 
alloAved the subject to gradually slip from their minds. On 
this morning, Mr. Morgan had entirely forgotten the beau- 
tiful AA’oman whom he and his friend had discovered in the 
Avater. 

Morgan had not been long on deck before he caught the 
flutter of a ribbon and glimpse of a cloak from around the 
mainmast. 

“ Humph ! some of the ladies are out on deck earlier than 
I,” thought the manager. 

Being something of a gallant, and very fond of ladies’ 
society, Morgan walked over to where the lady stood, lean- 
ing against the buhvai'ks, and gazing out on to the sea. 

Morgan had no doubt but it Avasone of his lady acquaint- 
ances. She stood with her back toAvard the deck, and her 
face was invisible. 

“Good-morning!” said Mr. Morgan. “A \^ery pleasant 
morning, indeed.” 

The woman started — turned her face tOAAmrd him. It 
was a beautiful face; but oh, so pale, so haggard. The eyes 
were large and dark, and filled with tears. The face was 
strange, and yet he seemed to have seen it before. 

Where had he beheld it? Oh, so beautiful and yet so 
sad ! The features were regular, the mouth, about which 
faint lines of suffering were visible, Avas sweet and express- 
ive of a pure heart. There Avas nothing vulgar or sensual 
about that face. 

For a moment he gazed in astonishment upon the sad 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 


51 


yet honntifiil woman before him, and then regaining liis 
equanimity, he said: 

“ Miss — or madam — ah— that is — I beg your pardon for 
this intrusion. In fact, I was laboring under a mistake. 
I thought you a lady acquaintance of mine, and so ad- 
dressed you.” 

The lady bowed, seemed confused, and quickly brushed 
the moisture from her eyes. By way of further apology 
the garrulous manager continued : 

“The weather has been so shockingly bad, and the sea 
so I’ough since we sailed, that we were all kept close to our 
state-rooms, and have had no chance to become acquaint- 
ed.” 

Again the young lady bowed, and the manager was sure 
that there was talent even in the bow. Having apologized, 
Mr. Morgan was about to turn away, for he was too mucli 
of a gentleman to intrude his society on a young lady who, 
by her silence, was evidently averse to him. But there 
was something in her face which suddenly arrested his 
attention. At the risk of being rude he turned back and 
stared at her. 

“ I— I beg a thousand pardons, miss — or madam, but if I 
am not greatly mistaken, you — you are the young lady wo 
found the first night out.” 

There was a great struggle going on in her breast all the 
time. She was striving to gain her self-control. After a 
moment she seemed to have gathered up her resolution, 
and said : 

“lam.” 

“ Then pardon my curiosity, for I am sure you will deem 
it excusable when you come to know all. My friend 
Morris and I— by the way, Morris is a clever actor. I 
thought to make a grand hit with him over in America, 
but he failed to draw as a star. Nevertheless, he is a clever 
actor, and can do second business exceedingly well. He’s 
not ambitious, though — but hold on, where am I? Yes, I 
was going to say that Morris and-I were standing on deck, 
looking out on the water and talking of our ill-luck in 
Amei’ica, when we discovered something fioating. The 
ofiicer of the watch made it out to be a woman fioating on 
a hen-coop. The captain was called, a boat lowered, and 
the captain, with some sailors, went out and picked you 
up, as they term it in nautical phrase-.” 

“ Then, sir,” said the young lady, “doubtless I owe my 
life to yourself and your friend,” 

She did not say how little she thanked them for saving it. 

“Well, more to accident than to ourselves. We just 
happened to be there, that is all. I merely mentioned the 
fact that it might be some excuse for my intense curiosity.” 


62 


LOST TO THE WOULD. 


“ You are perfectly excusable, sir.” 

“ I hope that you have fullv recovered by this time?” 

“ I have almost recovered.” 

“ May I ask how you came to he floating in that strange 
manner? Was it a wreck?” 

J5he nodded, and her face grew paler. 

“You jumped upon the hen-coop?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“ It must have been near the port?” 

“ It was.” 

“Was any one else saved?” 

“ I think not.” 

He did not ask what sort of a vessel it was that was 
wrecked. The unfortunate young woman seemed so sad 
that he knew her life must have been wrecked with the 
vessel, be it ship, brig or schooner. 

“Did you lose any friends?” he asked, after a few mo- 
ments’ silence. 

“ All I have on earth.” 

“Well, good Heaven! that is sad— that is sad,” said Mr. 
Morgan. “You have my most heartfelt sympathy, young 
lady. Ah 1 I beg pardon— what is your name?” 

There was not a moment’s hesitation. Tears were trick- 
ling down her cheeks, doubtless from the sad recollection 
of her friends who slept beneath the waves. 

“ Pauline Vandell is my name.” 

“ Pauline Vandell! Why, what a glorious name for the 
stage. It would draw of itself. But you were never on 
the stage, were you. Miss Vandell?” 

“ No, sir.” 

“Did you ever have any aspirations in that direc- 
tion ?” ' • 

“ I cannot say, sir. I have never thought on the sub 
ject.” 

“Well, well, I dare say not. Miss Vandell. Pardon me 
for being so pointed in my interrogatories. I am a plain, 
blunt Englishman. I fancy that in your voice and manner 
I see aptitude for the stage. Of course if you do not have 
to earn a livelihood, and have no inclination for the stage, 
you could not be induced to make the venture.” 

She was silent a moment. A flood of thought seemed to 
be sweeping over hei* face. She was seriously contemplat- 
ing something. It was as if hope, like a burst of sunshine, 
had suddenly dawned upon her. Was there yet a chance — a 
means by which she might live honorably? Biting her lips 
as if in great pain, she said : 

“ I am alone in the world, sir, with no money, income, 
or friends, and if a position of any kind was offered me 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 


53 


whereby I could make an honorable living, gladly would I 
accept it.” 

“ Well, well, now I knew it, young lady. From the mo- 
ment I set my eyes on you, I knew you must possess tal- 
ent. Your voice is full, sweet, and clear, and you have a 
heart to be moved — an essential requisite in an actress.’* 

“ I have never had any training, sir.” 

“Well, well, we can attend to that. If one possesses the 
talent, training will easily follow. You were never on the 
stage in your life?” 

“ No, sir.” 

“You have attended the theater?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“ Delighted m it?” 

“Very much, sir,” 

“I knew it. I told Morris so from the first. Now, 
young lady, if you say you have no friends or income, why 
not make a bargain at once to go upon the stage? If you 
show talent, I will bring you out in England, and then we 
may take a tour over in America.” 

To be brought out in England, and then make a tour in 
America, what better could the poor waif ask? 

She readily consented, and the manager hastened away 
to tell his good fortune to his friend and companion, Allen 
Morris, who laughed at the wild speculative ideas of his 
manager. 

In the meanwhile, Pauline Vandell, who was to enter on 
a new existence, went to the state-room which the captain 
had assigned her. To go to America, to make a tour 
through it— to win fame and applause, it seemed too 
much. Although she claimed she had lost all her friends 
and relatives in the wreck, there was one little darling on 
that shore, which gi*ew every minute more distant, for 
whom she would lay down her life. 

“Oh, my God! my God!” she sobbed, wildly, “will I 
ever see my baby again?” 


CHAPTER XI. 

THE FOUNDLING. 

“Blow my eyes, but don’t the little sea-gull eat?” said 
old Ben Thompson. 

“ Yes, Ben, it’s a’most starved.” 

“ Shiver my timbers, Peggy, ef I believe they take any 
better keer o’ babies at them orphan asylums than they 
should.” 

“They keep them alive, Ben.” 

“Alive!— by the trident o’ Neptune, Peggy, is it any 
mercy to keep a poor little thing alive to suffer wi’ hunger? 


64 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 


No ; the time sometimes comes when it’s a mercy to knock 
’em on the head.” 

“ Oh, Ben, how you talk!' 

“No, I don’t. It’s better to do it than to hev the little 
thing a-starvin’ alang.” 

The scene is the humble home of old Ben Thompson, the 
wooden-legged sailor, and present wharf-master. It is 
dark, and the single gas-jet has been lighted. Peggy 
Thompson has the foundling they had brought from the 
hospital on her lap, and is feeding it with warm milk and 
giaiel. It is hungry, and eats voraciously, much to the 
delight of old Ben. 

“May I lose my top riggin’,’' said old Ben, with a chuckle, 
“ ef it don’t do me more good to see it eat than to eat it 
myself.” 

“ Then what are ye talkin’ about knockin’ it on the head 
fur?” asked Peggy. 

“ Me knock it on the head! Why, Peggy, what kind o’ 
a squall has struck ye? I’d as soon think o’ scuttlin’ my 
own boat in mid-ocean as to think o’ hurtin’ the little 
darlin’.” 

“ Oh, she is too sweet!” said the good old Aunt Peggy. 

“ Well, I don’t understand that kind o’ a log book,” said 
old Ben, “but I’m sure o’ one thing, and that is that they’ll 
hev to send old Ben Thompson to Davy Jones’ locker afore 
they shall hurt a hair o’ its head !” 

“I wonder, Ben, if people what has babies o’ their own 
love ’em like we do this?” 

“Yes.” 

“Then why do they put ’em in asylums and go off an’ 
leave ’em?” 

“ Because they hev to. This little baby’s mother in- 
tended to commit suicide, which she did. Now, she loved 
her baby too much to take it into the bottom o’ the sea, 
and she jest concluded to leave it at what she thought was 
the best place — the asylum.” 

“ Ain’t it strange Ben, that we should hev got her baby?” 

“ It is, and I’m as glad o’ it as ever a shipwrecked crew 
were to see a sail. I kind a feel that the request o’ that 
poor girl for her child as she went overboard was in some 
way intended fur me.” 

“ We’ll take care o’ it, Ben.” 

“We’ll live fur it, and die fur it.” 

“ Yes; an’ I’m thankful now that we’ve got somethin’ to 
live fur,” said the old woman. 

“ But ain’t that clerk kind a queer-like?” 

“Jim Wicket, do ye mean?” 

“Yes; the one as hez clewed his affections to the baby.” 

“Wicket is a good feller.” 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 


55 


“ I know it. A better heart never beat beneath a blue- 
jacket. He loves the baby, but why he should, shiver my 
timbers if I can understand.’- 

“I do.” 

“ What then?” 

“ Well, ef you were a woman and not an old salt, ye’d 
know. Sailors don’t know much.” 

“ Ef you was an old salt instead o’ an old woman, ye'd 
be thin kin’ more about the good o’ poor people, and less 
about their intentions,” said the old sailor, testily. “ But, 
Peggy, we mustn’t whistle up any contrary windsjuow. 
Jest heave ahead an’ tell me all ye are goin’ to say ’bout 
Jim Wicket an’ the baby. I know ye’ve got somethin’ you’d 
as soon tell as not.” 

“Well, Ben, men ain’t never good at readin’ people’s 
faces Jim Wicket loves the baby cos he loved its 
mother.” 

“By the trident o’ Neptune, old girl!” exclaimed Ben 
Thompson, with a start. “It wouldn’t surprise me one 
bit ef you ain’t on the right track.” 

“ Of course I am, Ben. Didn’t ye see how his face got 
pale and he trembled when he heerd she was dead?” 

“I did.” 

“Poor Jim Wicket!” 

“Poor gal!” 

“ Heaven rest her soul!” 

“She had a hard time in this world, but we’ll see that 
her baby’s better taken care on than she was. There, it’s 
asleep, Peggy. The little thing has filled its hull clear u]> 
to the hatchway, an’ gone to sleep.” 

Old Aunt Peggy, as she was familiarly known, arose, 
wrapped the baby in a warm blanket, and laid it in the 
small bed they had that day purchased for it. 

The good old people stood by the side of the little bed, 
gazing down on the face of the sleeping child, with some- 
thing like parental affection. Their happy old faces were 
smiling and contented, as they gazed on the slumbering 
infant. 

It smiled in its sleep. 

“ Now, jest 190k at the little land-lubber,” chuckled old 
Ben. “ She’s spreadin’ the canvas o’ her fore-riggin’. 

“ Babies dream "when they laugh,” said Aunt Peggy. 

“ What’s it dreamin’ about?” 

“ Heaven,” said Aunt Peggy, solemnly. “Babies always 
dream o’ heaven. They see it, an’ see angels, too.” 

“ Oh, nonsense!” 

“ Why, don’t you believe it, Ben?” 

“No; no more do you.” 

“ It’s true as gospel, an’ I kin prove it.” 


66 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 


“ What by?” 

“The Bible.” 

“’Ye can’t do no sich thing, old woman. I ain’t agoin’ 
to dispute with ye; but I jest know ye can’t. If they see 
heaven an’ angels, why can’t older folks?” 

“ Because they’re innocent and pure. They never did 
any wrong, an’ have no real sin on their souls. When we 
grow up to be men and women, we’ ve corrupted ourselves 
by sinnin’ so we can't see these heavenly visitors. The 
Bible says ‘Unless ye become as little children ye shall not 
enter into the kingdom of heaven.’ Now, I guess from 
that, little children can see the kingdom of heaven.” 

“ Well, Peggy, ye kin beat me at quotin’ Scriptur’, an’ 
always could. I guess that babe kin look right from its 
bunk into the everlastin’ port o’ peace, something the best 
salt on the wave couldn’t do with his glass.” 

Two weeks passed, and the little foundling grew hale 
and strong. 

Its little eyes sparkled, its cheeks glowed with health, 
and it crowed and screamed mischievously. It seemed to 
delight in sitting* on the old sailor’s knee and pulling 
away at his stubby, gray whiskers. 

They had not yet d^ecided what name to give this new 
claimant on their love. 

Old Ben one day introduced the subject by asking his 
wife by what name she intended to call the baby. 

“ Why, its own, to be sure,” she answered. 

“ I thought,” said Ben, “that maybe it would be nice to 
give it our name.” 

“ Ours? — why not its own? Lillie Day is a sweet name, 
and rightfully belongs to the child,” said the old lady. 

“Well— well; but you must remember, Peggy, that a 
pedigree toilers in the wake of every name. You go and 
nail the name o’ Lillie Day to the mast o’ this little craft, 
and it’ll foller it as long as she lives.” 

“ What if it does? Ain’t she entitled to it?” 

“ But the stoi'y ?” 

“ What story?” 

“ Story of her birth, story of her mother, and the sui- 
cidal way she launched out into the broad ocean. Ye must 
remember that while she goes by the name o’ Lillie Day, 
this is bound to foller her.” 

The kind old lady scratched her head a moment with 
the end of a knitting-needle she was using, and then said : 

“But think, Ben, if she should have some relations or 
kind friends on this earth somewhere, who would have the 
good o’ the little baby at heart, and take it into their heads 
and hearts to hunt it up. They might have years o’ weary 
search, and yit never find it, jirovidin’ wc changed its 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 57 


name. If we didn’t change its name, they might soon 
come across it.” 

“If they did we’d lose it,” said the sailor. “ That’s one 
reason I wanted her refitted and to sail the remainder o’ 
life’s voyage under a new name.” 

“ Aha, I thought so, Ben. I don’t blame ye for lovin’ the 
baby — ye can’t help that— but yer plan’s not altogether an 
honest one. 

“Why, hevn’t its relations all abandoned it?” 

“Yes; but some on ’em may not know anything about 
it.” 


“Who?” 

“ Its father.” 

“ Its father is a scamp, no doubt.” 

“ I don’t believe it, Ben. I tell ye, a babe so sweet and 
pure as this can’t hev much bad blood about it.” 

“Well, well, I see we differ,” said Ben. “Suppose we 
wait until Jim Wicket come comes, and see what he says 
about this. He’s sailin’ along as a kind o’ a consort in the 
matter anyhow.” 

Ben’s proposition was adopted. Aunt Peggy was fully 
convinced that it would be safe to leave the matter to Jim 
Wicket. 

Two or three more weeks passed before he came near the 
sailor’s humble abode. 

In the meanwhile the baby grew in strength and beauty, 
seeming each day to more effectually entwine itself around 
the heart-strings of its kind old foster-parents. 

One day Jim Wicket came to Ben’s house, and was well 
pleased to see how the baby had grown. 

“ It is getting more beautiful every day,” said the en- 
thusiastic clerk. 

“What do you say about changin’ its name, Mr. Wicket?” 
asked Aunt Peggy. 

“ Don’t do it by any means,” was his answer. 

“ Why?” asked the sailor. 

“ Because if you change a child’s name, my grandmother 
said, it was sure to die.” 

That settled the question. 

Ben Thompson was a sailor, with all a sailor’s super- 
stition, and he was bound to respect this old saying. 


CHAPTER XII. 

THE DEBUT. 

“ First appearance on any stage of the talented and 
beautiful Miss Pauline Vandell. Don’t fail to see this 
world-renowned actress. First appearance at the Old 
Drury Lane Theater.” 


68 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 


The above was only a portion of the inconsistent adver- 
tisement Mr. Julius Ca?sar Morgan was reading. 

Mr. Morgan was seated at a desk in his office in London, 
which, by the way, was a small, dingy affair. The win- 
dows were small, old-fashioned, and seemed to admit in- 
sufficient light. 

The manager was by nature a man of cheerful dispo- 
sition. Like most men of a speculative turn of mind, he 
intrusted a great deal to luck. 

Just how this 7iew actress, who had never yet appeai’ed 
on any stage, had become world-renowned, might be a 
serious question. Mr. Morgan never gave it a thought. 

He had written out the advertisement,' as he did almost 
everything, without giving it careful thought. 

“it will draw; it’s bound to draw,” he said. 

The play announced in the poster Avas one very popular 
in England at the time of which Ave Avrite. and has since 
been popular in America. It was of a Avife deserted by 
her husband, dragged doAvn to poverty and disgrace, until 
at last she was forced to part Avith her child. 

The play was what might be called sensational, yet it 
Avas full of pathos, and never failed to make the naturally 
sympathetic weep. It also had a comedian Avhose business 
it was to make them laugh. 

Mr. Morgan, whose speculations had not been successful 
heretofore, had gone to great expense to bring out this neAV 
star and comparatively new play. 

His companion and counselor, Mr. Morris, the actor, had 
himself discovered talent in the sea waif, as they called 
Miss Vandell. 

Her story of the wreck of a yacht in Avhich her only 
relative was drowned, and hoAv she had tried to escape by 
jumping on a hen-coop, was believed implicitly by Mr. 
Morgan. 

As soon as they landed in England, Mr. Morris took the 
neAV star in training. Although Morris had failed as a star 
himself, he had within him the poAver of bringing out the 
light from a real star. He Avas a better trainer and critic 
than actor. The men Avho criticise books can find the de- 
fects and sometimes good parts of a book, but are incapable 
of writing one themselves. Morris was fully capable of 
criticising and telling his pupil how to act, but inadequate 
to perform great Avork himself. 

There came a rap at the manager’s door. 

“ Come in,” he said. 

The door opened, and our old friend Morris himself en 
tered. 

“Hello, Morris! just the man I Avanted to see. lam 
more than glad you’ve come. 9it doAvn— sit down.” 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 59 

Morris took the chair whicli the manager pushed towai-d 
him. 

“ Well, Morris, we shall soon be ready to carry London 
by storm.” 

Morris smiled, and, in his quiet way, said : 

“ Well, my dear fellow, do not build your pasteboard 
houses too high. The higher they rise, the greater the fall, 
you know.” 

“ Yes; but I have not reckoned without my host. Why, 
man, even you admitted last evening, at rehearsal, that her 
acting was simply immense.” 

“It was just excellent,” said the actor; “ but then, when 
she comes on the stage before a real audience, and knows 
so much depends on her; she may falter.” 

“No, she will not. I would risk my reputation on her 
nerves standing the test.” 

“ But you have risked j’our reputation so often, Morgan, 
and came so near losing it a few times, that you might 
even begin to doubt your own judgment.” 

“Oh, bosh! Nonsense!” said the manager, testily. “1 
would risk my life on it. Now, will that make it any 
stronger.” 

“No; nothing could make it stronger than your simple 
assertion, Morgan, for 1 know you to be the soul of honor 
and truth; but, then, your judgment has played rather 
fickle with you on several occasions. Our last American 
tour, for instance.” 

“Oh, nonsense, Morris; let me not hear another word 
about that confounded tour. But say, old fellow, what do 
you think of this for a poster?” 

He took up what he had written, and read it to Morris. 

Here the powers of the critic, again stood Morris and his 
friend in good need. There wei’e many suggestions wliich 
the actor made, and Morgan was not too stubboiai to yield 
a point when judgment and reason convinced him he was 
wrong. 

“Now, Morris,” said the manager, hopefully, “tell me 
exactly what you think of the play, and the new star.” 

“ I think it will be a success,” was the quiet answer. 

“Well, don’t you know it?” 

“ No; we know nothing absolutely in this world.” 

“I tell you it certainly has all the elements of success 
in it.” 

“Yes; and still it might fail.” 

“ Well, old boy, if I fail on this, I am gone under sure,” 
said Morgan, somewhat uneasily. “I have put my last 
farthing into it, and borrowed five hundred pounds in ad- 
dition. If it fails it will crush me.” 

“ I trust it will not, Morgan, for if ever a fellow deserves 


CO 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 


to succeed you do. Yet the public is so fickle we cannot 
always count on it. They are ready at one moment to hiss 
an actor from the stage, and the next to applaud.” 

For some time Morgan sat with his head bowed in his 
hands, and then raising his face, said : 

“Well, Morris, I have risked all on this young woman. 
If she comes up to my expectations, I will Avin ; if she does 
not, I will lose. I think she can appreciate what I have 
done for her, Morris ; but I wish you would speak to her 
about it.” 

“ I will do so.” 

“Let her realize that a great responsibility rests upon 
her, and that she must not falter.” 

“Have no fears but what she shall realize that all de- 
pends on her in the performance.” 

The new actress had been dependent on the advanced 
wages furnished by her manager, and had realized before 
that she was greatly indebted to him. But when Mr. Mor- 
ris came to her and told her what the kind-hearted man 
had done she was almost stupefied. 

“ Now, do not become frightened,” said the actor, “ and 
lose jmur self-control. You must pi’eserve your coolness, 
let what may happen.” 

“ I shall if I can,” was the answer. 

“ You can,” said the actor, in a tragical, stagy manner. 
“Remember that it is for your best friend, Julius Morgan, 
you play.” 

Mr, Morris left her, and when alone the new star, who 
was soon to make her debut, clasped her hands, and rais- 
ing her eyes toward heaven, said : 

“ Oh, they little dream what a ten-ible incentive there 
is to urge me on to success ! Fame I want not, but oh, for 
money — for means wherewith I can provide one precious 
little treasured darling, who never had a home, with com- 
fort! Oh, Lillie! Lillie, my child, how fare you to-night? 
Will not the whispering winds of heaven tell me?” 

Wringing her hands, she sank down upon the sofa and 
wept bitterly. 

Although the ' child might be starving, she had not a 
penny to send to it. But hope pointed to a possible bright 
future. 

The evening for the first appearance of Miss Pauline 
Vandell came. Somehow the newspaper men— those in- 
sinuating gentlemen— had become apprised of the fact that 
x\\e debidante was remarkably beautiful, and set strange 
Avhispers afloat concerning her loveliness. 

The public was all on the qui vive, and when the evening 
came the theater was crowded. 

“So much for the advertising,” said the manager, coolly, 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 


61 


as ho sat in the office and quietly smoked a cigar. “ It now 
all depends on her acting. The audience is here.” 

The orchestra were all in, and struck up an overture. 
The house was full. There was not even standing-room. 
Many were forced to go away. 

The manager grew quite nervous as the time came for 
the bell to ring up the curtain. He had taken a position 
in the rear, that he might witness the appearance of his 
star, and the effect she would have on the audience. 

Jingle, jingle, went the belk The great curtain slowly 
rolled upward, revealing the stage and interior of a Lord 
Somebody’s drawing-room. 

The beginning of the scene introduced two impudent 
servants, and was very commonplace. But other charac- 
ters came on gradually, and the play moved along very 
well. 

At last the star came in. Oh, how poor Morgan’s heart 
beat! He almost held his breath. The audience recog- 
nized her at once by her beauty and ■ youth, and thunders 
of applause shook the theater. She paused a moment, and 
bowed an acknowledgment of the warm i*eception, and 
went on so naturally with her part, that the manager al 
most forgot she Avas acting. 

She was so Avell received that, at the close of the first act, 
she Avas encored three times before the curtain. 

“She does Avell,” thought the manager; “but noAv hoAV 
will she stand the heavy part?” 

The heavy part came. It was a separation of the mother 
from her Child, torn ruthlessly asunder by poverty. She 
made a young-looking mother, but her clear, tender voice 
seemed to wildly thrill every one in that vast audience. 

It was not acting. It Avas to her an aAvful reality. The 
audience Avas swayed and so completely moved by her 
powers that many sobbed aloud. The manager’s eyes 
Avere not dry. He saw that fortune had smiled upon him. 
His star Avas a success ; and even he, accustomed to such 
scenes, could hardly believe it was not real. 

Encore followed encore at the close of each act, and 
when the play Avas over Miss Vandell Avas called before 
the curtain, until Mr. Morris had to come out and apol- 
ogize for her failing to appear any more. 

As the audience passed out, Morgan hastened into the 
green-room, Avhere he met Morris still in costume. He 
grasped the actor’s hand in silence. Before either could 
speak there came a scream. 

One of the actresses rushed out of the ladies’ dressing- 
room and cried : 

“Oh, Heaven! Miss Vandell has fainted!” 


62 


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CHAPTER XIII. 

MR. GASS HAS A NEW PLAN. 

One character of our story has been neglected for some 
time. The respectable Mr. Hugh Gass has not been alto- 
gether idle, although in the multifarious mazes and turn 
of the thread of our narrative, we have not come in contact 
with him. 

Mr. Gass had, as the reader will remember, precipitated 
the aAvful fate of IJna Belmont. True, Una had had it in 
contemplation before she met the monster. He only con- 
firmed and hastened a previously formed determination. 

Gass followed after her, hissing curses between his teeth. 

“The proud jade,” he said to himself, as he hurried 
along almost out of breath. “ She rejects me with scorn. 
She is going down toward the river. Good God, what does 
she mean?” 

Horrified, he halted upon the street, and saw her rush 
swiftly down the dock. 

A moment later he heard a heavy splash. He would 
have gone down to assist in rescuing her, but the lame 
sailor was between them, and like a cowardly wolf, the 
monster slunk away. 

“Foiled, by Heaven!” he growled, like a beast who liad 
been cheated of a meal. 

There was no sympathy in the breast of the villain for 
the suicide. True, he felt a sort of regret, and a stupid 
horror shocked him, but it was all selfishness. 

He had no love for Una, though he would have made her 
his Avife. Love is an emotion too pure and too noble for 
men of the baser sort to experience. If Gass had married 
her, it would have been because he knew she was entitled 
to wealth; and when he got that in his possession, he 
would have been willing to discard her. 

He regretted her awful fate, not so much on account of 
the fate as the fact that it had thwarted his plans. We 
have said he had no love for Una Belmont; and in fact he 
was utterly incapable of pure, unselfish love. He felt a sort 
of mild admiration and eagerness to possess the beautiful 
dark -eyed girl at the first time he saw her — even when she 
was a school-girl, and first became acquainted with Harry 
Clarendon, the friend to Avhom he ijroved false. He felt 
a kind of selfish envy of Harry, especially Avhen the wily 
young villain ascertained the fact that Una Belmont was 
entitled to property in her own right. He did not care for 
her love himself, he did not feel jealous of the affections 
she lavished on his friend, but he coveted her and her 
Avealth, just as a miser might a nugget of gold or a dia- 
mond. 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 


63 


He hated his friend with all the narrow-minded hate of 
an envious miser, and yet was such a consummate hypo- 
crite that he effectually concealed his emotions from Hariy 
Clarendon. He had planned Una’s ruin and Harry’s with 
excellent skill. They, loving each other and trusting to 
him, as they did, fell easy victims to his snare ; and when 
he had them fast he let the cruel blow fall, which sepa- 
rated them and sent Harry Clarendon to his fate on the 
wild frontier. 

‘‘Well,” growled Gass, as he walked leisurely back to- 
ward his hotel, “ it’s all up, and I’ve lost. Cursed fate 
was against me, though I played a skillful hand. What 
in the deuce so set the girl against me I don’t know. I am 
not such a horrible-looking monster, I don’t think, that 
she need despise me, and yet she certainly does.” 

As he walked leisurely along, ruminating on the past, 
and his unsuccessful plans, a policeman stopped him and 
said: 

“ What was that noise down at the dock?” 

“How can I tell?” said Gass, “especially as I have not 
been near the dock.” 

“You are coming from that direction,” said the police- 
man. 

‘‘So I am coming from the direction in which London 
lies, but I have not been there,” growled Gass. 

“Well, go on, sir,” answered the policeman. 

“I am going to do so, sir, without either command or 
permission from you.” 

The policeman growled some inarticulate words as Gass 
moved off, to which the scoundrel made no response. He 
was chagrined, and felt most keenly his late disappoint- 
ment. He would not have objected to a loveless marriage 
with Una Belmont, for he intended that to her it would 
only bring misery. Like all men of his class, Gass was 
looking for an easy situation for himself. 

When he reached his hotel he went at once to his room, 
where he threw himself in a chair, and said : 

“WeU, well, Hugh Gass, that game is up; you must 
now turn your attention to something else. Your talents 
are certainly great enough to make you comfortable. This 
is a failure, but you need not be discouraged ; it was a case, 
certainly, without a parallel in the history of fortune- 
hunting. She was so dead in love with that soft-headed 
Harry Clarendon that all my attempts to win her back 
were in vain. Well, it was win or ruin with me, and I 
ruined not myself.” . , , , 

The villain even chuckled at the fearful crime he had 
committed. He was delighted that he had wrought mis- 
chief to those whom his envy made him hate. When he 


64 


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had worn himself out by alternately raging, cursing, and 
rejoicing at what had been his ill fate, he tumbled into bed 
and was soon sound asleep. 

He slept until morning, and then began to consider what 
he had best do. Gass was not a man of wealth. He had 
long lived a parasitical sort of a life on his friend Harry, 
and now that he was no more, and even the money Harry 
had left for Una’s comfort and support was about gone, 
Gass knew he must do something for a living. New York 
always affords employment for men, even if it is denied to 
women. 

Gass had good business qualifications, and was industri- 
ous and sober, the main qualifications for business. He 
soon received a place in a counting-house as clerk, and en- 
tered at once on his duties. Industrious as he was, the 
villain pi’eferred some easier mode of making money, or at 
least some mode whereby it could be made more rapidly. 

Even when at his desk, he was constantly turning over 
plans in his mind whereby he might suddenly acquire 
great wealth. He was unscrupulous, and would hesitate 
at nothing which would not be openly criminal. Gass still 
I'etained even in his own mind a certain respectability 
about him. He liked to be thought honest, and sometimes 
even prided himself on being honest, but just a little 
shrewd. Of course he knew he had acted a base, treach- 
erous part with Harry and Una, and still he always eased his 
conscience-burdened mind, if it was really ever conscience- 
burdened, by saying: 

“ I did all for the girl I could . She refused my hospital- 
ity, and every kindness I ever offered her, I never drove 
her away *, she went of her own accord, and would not ac- 
cept the food and shelter I offered her. Harry left the 
money with me to pay her bills and not to give to her, but 
I could not pay her bills when I really did not know where 
she was. I guess Hugh Gass has performed his part to 
the letter. If he had intended that I should give her the 
money, he should have said so, and I would have done it. 
I obeyed my instructions to the letter, and surely no one 
could blame me for doing that.” 

Villains sometimes obey instructions to the letter, but 
never to the spirit. Those who blindly follow the letter of 
an instruction are but little better than wooden men moved 
by some machinery. 

It is in the spirit, and not in the letter, in which all things 
should be followed or obeyed. 

One day, while regretting the sad fate which had de- 
prived him of the feast of wealth which had been denied 
him, the villain was struck with a new thought. He started 
to his feet in an ecstacy of delight. 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 


65 


“By the powers of Jupiter! why have I not thought of 
that before?” he cried, clapping his hands with delight. 
“ I'll do it, I’ll do it. The wealth can all fall into mv hands 
yet.” 

It bad been a month since the scoundrel had been a wit- 
ness to the destructive plunge of Una beneath the wave. 

“ She had a child. Aha! It was not with her when she 
drowned* herself. Then it lives. It lives, and is her heir. 
As her heir it will inherit the same property she was enti- 
tled to. Then I will find the child. Let me see; it was 
left thei’e under the name, without a doubt, of Day. They 
went by the name of Day at the hospital, and I guess Day 
was the name she gave it at the orphan asylum.” 

Feeling that he had the child secure, the villain did not 
go at once to the asylum. He was sure of evei-y thing, and 
there was no need to be in any great huri’y. Slowly and 
carefully, at his leisure, he went about looking up the child. 
He ascertained that it had been left at the orphan as^dum 
under the name of Lillie Day. He sought out Jim Wicket, 
and had a long conversation with him, during which he, 
by a careful course of cross-questions, ascertained all the 
information he desii’ed. 

He learned that the child was at old Ben Thompson’s, 
the wooden-legged sailor. 

“Did you know the mother of the child?” asked Jim 
Wicket, passing his hand up and down along his freckled 
cheek. 

“Yes, very well,” said the villain. 

“Was she anything to you?” 

“Yes.” 

“A friend?” 

“A relation, answered the wily Gass. 

“ How near related?” 

“ A half-sister.” 

“ I fear,” said Jim, “that the poor young lady is dead.” 

“ I fear so, too, and my duty as her nearest relative im- 
pels me to hunt up the child and see that it is well cared 
for.” 

“ It is well cared for,” said Wicket, with a degree of un- 
easiness in his manner. 

“ I have no reason to doubt your assertion,” said Gass, 
“ yet it is my duty to my sister’s child to see it with my 
own eyes, and know that it is suitably cared for.” 

With considerable reluctance the clerk told him where 
he would find the child. 

Gass did not say, in so many words, that he would take 
the child away from the good people who had it, but he 
left no assurance with Wicket that they should continue to 
keep it. 


66 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 


“ They can have the child for awhile,” he said, when he 
had once more reached his own room, “ for I don’t care to 
be bothered with it; but when the proper time comes I 
shall not hesitate to claim it. Ha ! ha ! Gass, you hold 
the winning card yet.” 


CHAPTER XIV. 

CONVALESCENT. 

The manager and actor stood for a moment, gazing in 
blank wonder at the face of the frightened girl who had 
announced that Miss Vandell was in a fainting fit in the 
dressing-room. Morgan was the first to gain his self-pos- 
session. 

“Come, Morris,” he said to the actor; “let us see if 
matters are as bad as represented.” 

He led the way to the dressing-room, followed by the 
actor. There upon the carpet, her head supported by an- 
other lady, lay the new star of the stage in a death-like 
swoon. About her was gathered an excited group of 
weeping girls, still in the costume they had worn in the 
play. 

Morgan was a man of considerable coolness. He no 
sooner saw the insensible actress than he at once divined 
the cause. 

“It’s only a faint,” he said; “don’t be alarmed. She 
will come out of it soon.” 

“Oh, she is dead— she is dead,” wailed several, wringing 
their hands. 

“No, no; do not think that. She is exhausted, and 
her nerves gave way after the long mental strain upon 
them.” 

“See if her heart beats, Mr. Morgan,” said Morris. 

The manager placed his hand upon the side of the insen- 
sible actress, and therefrom received three of four respon- 
sive throbs; there were long intervals between them, and 
they were somewhat irregular. 

“ She’s not dead,” said the manager. “ Morris run for a 
doctor.” 

The actor forgot the quaint dress he had on. His mind 
was fixed only on the idea of getting the physician in time 
to save the life of her Avho had proven herself a star of the 
firf5t magnitude. “Poor Morgan!” the actor murmured, 
“ it would be too bad to have success plucked from hi? 
hand at the very moment of triumph, by the grim mon- 
ster, Death.” 

Men and children on the street paused to gaze on the 
strangely-attired man. His wild costume and manner 
made them think him insane. 


LOST T§ THE WORLD. 


67 


He reached a physician’s house, and rang the night-bell. 
In a few moments the doctor was up, dressed, and hurried 
away to the theater. 

Fortunately for the insensible actress, the audience 
had pretty well left the theater before she swooned, and 
the truth of the condition of this new favorite was not con- 
veyed outside. 

When the doctor and Morris came in she had been con- 
veyed to the green-room, and placed upon a couch. Two 
of the most cool of the ladies had loosened heifbodice, and 
Morgan was walking back and forth, wringing his hands, 
and saying: 

“ Heaven grant she may live. Oh, it’s too bad, too bad 
to lose all now.” 

The doctor proceeded at once to examine the insensible 
woman. 

“Is she dead? Oh, doctor, is she dead?” Morgan asked. 

“No. I think not,” was the answer, yet his face was 
very grave, and he looked seriously at the manager. 

“Will she live — oh, tell me, will she live?” groaned 
Morgan. 

“I cannot say. She must be kept very quiet.” 

“Can she be removed?” 

“ How far is it to her home?” 

“She lives at a hotel not more than three or four blocks 
away.” 

“Then, sir, she must be conveyed there at once.” 

“ She shall -she shall.” 

“She will require very careful nursing.” 

“She shall have every attention.” 

Morgan himself ran out hatless into the night to hunt 
for a conveyance. A fly near was the flrst thing he saw, 
and he procured it. The actress was placed in the fly and 
conveyed to the hotel. She was taken to her own apart- 
ment, and the doctor then proceeded to complete his ex- 
amination and make his diagnosis of the case. 

The manager remained in the room and continued to 
pace the apartment, wringing his hands in agony and dis- 
tress. Morris had assumed an attire more befitting the 
age in which he lived, and was I’eady at a moment’s warn- 
ing to do the bidding of any one. The doctor and two of 
the older actresses, who acted as impromptu nurses, re- 
mained at the couch of the invalid. 

Soon respiration became a little more regular, and the 
doctor, whose finger was on her pulse, gave vent to a hope- 
ful sigh. 

“ Is she better?” asked the managei*. 

“ Yes,” was the unqualified answer. 

“Will she live?” 


68 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 


“ I cannot say as to that.” 

“ Why, don’t you think she will recover?” 

“ I am not so certain of that,” said the doctor, in /in un- 
dertone. “It will not be a speedy recovery, sir, and it 
will require some careful nursing if she ever recovers at 
all.” 

“Will she not be able to play to-morrow night?” 

“No.” 

The'manager sank into a chair with a groan. 

The doctor now prepared a stimulating draught, which 
he poured down her throat, and then he said : 

“ If she plays again in a month it will be as much as I 
could promise.” 

“ Oh, sir— sir,” cried Morgan, starting to his feet with 
the air of a ruined man, “ can she not go on the stage be- 
fore?” 

“ No, I think not.” 

“ Is it so serious?” 

“ Her case is a very serious one.” 

“ Tell me frankly, doctor, what is it that ails her?” 

“She has received some great shock; I cannot exactly 
say what it is.” 

“ Do you think it was to-night?” 

“That I can’t say. I think her whole nervous system 
was shattered at one time, and to-night only brought it on 
again.” 

The manager continued to pace the apartment very 
much as a man might who saw his fortune of millions 
swept away from him at one fell swoop. But Morris, who 
watched the manager’s face closely, read thereon anxiety 
deeper and greater than any view of money. No loss of 
wealth could bring to his countenance such a deep, blank 
despair as his wore. He had deeper interest in the actress 
than any monetary matters. 

An experienced nurse was procured, and the doctor left 
his instructions with her. Then all retired, leaving the 
room darkened so that she might sleep. The sun stole 
slowly up in the east, struggling through the fog to reach 
the city, and anon, as some of its rays reached the case- 
ment windows of the sick woman, she opened her eyes 
and stared vacantly about the room. 

The light was subdued and the roar outside was deadened 
by the walls of the room, before it reached the patient. 
The stare of the invalid was but a blank stare. She gazed 
around the room for a moment without any sign of con- 
sciousness, and closed her eyes once more as if in sleep. 

The doctor came and found a fever rising. It was his 
greatest dread, and he had used every precaution to pre- 


LOST TO THE WORLD, 


69 


vent it ; but all his skill was in vain. The fever came, 
and for long weeks she hovered between life and death. 

The manager was most solicitous of all concerning her 
welfare, though the new actress had made many friends 
among the theater-going people of London. Many persons 
called to ask after her, but her condition was so critical 
that the doctor felt compelled to refuse them admittance. 

The manager occasionally came to the hotel, and was 
sometimes admitted to the sick-room. Long would he sit 
by the bedside of the sufferer, whose beauty was rapidly 
being consumed by the ravages of the fever. In his eye 
there was a sympathetic look which the doctor thought he 
could not misinterpret. One day he met Morris at the 
hotel, and asked : 

“ Is Morgan a married or single man?” 

“ He is single,” was the answer. 

“ Well, then, it is as I expected,” he said. 

“ How is the patient?” 

“Still very low.” 

“And the fever?” 

“ Continues.” 

But the fever broke that night and left her very weak— 
so weak, in fact, that the doctor could not then assure 
himself that she would recover. 

For nearly four weeks she had hovered between life and 
death, and then, after a few days’ lingering on the very 
brink, she began to recover slowly. 

“Do you think' she will get along now, doctor?” the 
manager asked, one morning, as he met the doctor coming 
out of her room. 

“Well, I have more hopes. Her mind does not seem 
clear, though.” 

“ Was it brain fever?” 

“ It amounted to about that,” was the unsatisfactory an- 
swer of the doctor. 

“Will it injure her mind?” 

“ I cannot say ; it is not clear now.” 

The manager’s face grew pale. Here was a new horror 
which he had not before thought of. He came the next 
day, and the next, and found her still improving. 

He was, at the end of the week, admitted to her room, 
and found her able to sit up and converse. Her mind was 
not yet clear, and her memory seemed badly affected, 
but as she was convalescing rapidly he hoped she would 
soon be herself again. 


70 


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CHAPTER XV. 

THE sailor’s visitor. 

As the weeks and months rolled by the foundling old 
Ben Thompson had taken to raise grew stronger and more 
beautiful. The old sailor and his wife could not have loved 
the child more had it been their own flesh and blood. It 
crowed upon the old man’s knee, and he seemed to grow 
young again. 

“ Blow my eyes if I don’t feel like a cabin-boy in a new 
jacket once more,” he said, as he held the baby to his 
breast. It was a beautiful child. It had its mother’s dark 
eyes and regular features, and its father’s robust constitu- 
tion and buoyant spirits. 

“ She is a treasure to us,” said the old woman. 

“A treasure!” cried the old Jack-tar. “She is a life- 
boat in a wreck, a compass in a fog, a helm in a storm, 
and a port o’ peace to water-logged hulks such as you 
and I.” 

“Well, Ben, I don’t allers understand more’n half them 
sailor words you use, but I do know that all the gold in the 
world would not buy her.” 

The old sailor looked sadly on the face of the child for a 
few moments, and then said : 

“Sometimes, old ’oman, I git afraid that she will be taken 
away from us.” 

“Why, who’ll take her away?” Aunt Peggy asked, 
almost fiercely. 

“You know she must have some relation who’d kinder 
clew to the baby, after all.” 

“ Well, I reckin ef they loved it very much they’d 
a-come and got it when it was in the asylum, and took 
care of it, and not left it to strangers.” 

“We don’t know — we don’t know,” growled the old 
sea-dog. “Sometimes we think we’re on the right track, 
when we’ve missed our calculations, and got off our 
bearin’s. But there’s Mr. Wicket bearin’ down on us as 
though he wanted to speak.” 

Jim Wicket at this moment knocked at the rude cabin 
door of the old sailor, and was at once admitted. 

“ Lay to, cast anchor here, shipmate, and let’s be 
friendly,” said the sailor, placing a chair for his visitor. 

Jim Wicket’s red face had grown considerably paler. 
The great red freckles even had become but little more than 
white blotches. 

Aunt Peggy noticed at once how pale and anxious the 
young man had grown, and said : 

“ Are you ill, Mr. Wicket? You look jest as if ye’d been 
ill.” 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 


71 


“ No, no, no; I am well— I am perfectly well.” 

“Oh, bnt you don’t look it.” 

“Well, now, shipmate, if I was goin’ to express what 
seems to be uppermost in my mind, I’d say ye looked as if 
ye war at sea without sail, chart or compass, and feed had 
run out a week ago.” 

“ Never mind me, friends,” said Jim, nervously. “ I am 
all right; but I have some bad news, I fear, for you.” 

“ What is it?” asked the old woman, starting up. 

“Yes, shipmate, if ye’ve laid to here with bad news, let 
us have it. Don’t be anyways backward. I’ve been before 
the mast too long to git scary o’ breakers. ” 

“ I saw a man who says he is the uncle of this child.” 

“ This child?” cried Aunt Peggy. 

“Yes.’' 

“He’s a liar!” said the old sailor. “Jest show the 
scoundrel to me, and, shiver my timbers, if I don’t make 
him ’bout ship, and scud before the wind, or I'll be into his 
weather-bows before he hardly has time to down helm.” 

Jim Wicket listened for a moment in silence, and then 
shook his head sadly. 

“Violence won’t do, Mr. Thompson,” he said. “If 
the man is right, he may have the law dead against us.” 

“ Oh, they won’t take our baby from us — he surely won’t 
take our baby away,” wept Aunt Peggy, wringing her 
hands over the head of the astonished child, which looked 
up a moment in her face, and began to cry also. 

“No; shiver my timbers if they won’t find it worse than 
boardin’ a man-o’-war ef they ever come across my haw- 
ser,’’ growled the old sailor. 

“It’s no use to threaten ’em,” said Wicket. “ If he’s got 
the law on his side — and I guess he has — why, we can’t 
help it if he wants the child. I don’t think he wants it.” 

“Who is he?” 

“ His name is Gass.” 

“Where does he live?” 

“In the city.” 

“ How came he to ask you about the child?” asked Aunt 
Peggy. 

“ He was at the asylum huntin’ for it.” 

“ Did he say he wanted to take it away —oh, did he say 
he wanted to take it away?” Aunt Peggy asked. 

“No,” Jim Wicket answered. “He didn’t say that he 
would take it away with him, but he did say that he 
wanted to see how the baby was getting along, and wanted 
to know that it was well cared for.” 

“Oh, Avell, if that’s all’ shipmate,” said the old sailor; 
“why shiver my timbers, if it looks squally. Old woman. 


72 


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wipe the salt flakes from your forecastle ; there’s no use 
overflowin’ when it ain’t no more dangerous than that.” 

Aunt Peggy wiped her eyes upon the corner of her clean 
white apron, and holding the baby once more closely to her 
breast, said: 

“ He sha’n’t have it — no, he sha’n’t have it. I’d. die be- 
fore I’d give her up.” 

“While he didn’t say he’d take it away,” said Jim, in a 
melancholy voice, “he left no assurance that he would 
leave it here with you.” 

Old Ben Thompson did not like this one bit, and still he 
said nothing moi'e than a few unintelligible words growled 
thi’ough his teeth. Jim Wicket remained for some time at 
the house of his friends, and then left. 

Weeks and months passed. The child grew stronger, 
until it was able to toddle about over the floor. It learned 
to call the old people father and mother, and its pretty 
little ways constantly warmed their old hearts. , Day by 
day it seemed to entwine itself about their affections. They 
felt their old lives grow young in this new care, and if they 
sometimes had dark fears of that mysterious relation, they 
did not express them. 

A year had passed since the child was received, and they 
were so sincerely attached to it that one might as well 
think of tearing the hearts from their bosoms as to take 
the baby away from them. It was no longer a baby, but a 
laughing eyed child, whose little winning graces were in- 
numerable. 

One evening, as Aunt Peggy sat in front of her cheerful 
grate fire— for autumn had once more come— there came a 
rap at the door. 

“ Me do open— me do open,” said Lillie, climbing down 
from her foster-mother’s knee and hastening to the door. 
Aunt Peggy wondered who it could be. Surely, Ben would 
not knock ; and yet it was just his time to return. Befoi-e 
she could intercept her, the child had opened the door, and 
a tall sti’anger, with burnside whiskers, stood bowing and 
smiling before her. 

“ Come in!” said the old woman, before she hardly knew 
what she was saying. “Be seated; my husband, the 
wharf-master, will be here soon.” 

“WeU, well,” said the oily-tongued stranger, touching 
up his side- whiskers, “perhaps there is no need of his hur- 
rying on my account. You might answer as well.” 

Aunt Peggy sank down in a chair, and the child shrank 
at once to her side. The stranger seated himself directly 
in front of the old woman and child, and said : 

“Your child, madam?” 

“ Y — yes,” she answered. 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 


78 


“Your OAvn?” 

“ N— no, not exactly. Just one .we took to raise, that’s 
all.” 

“ Umph, humph !” grunted the stranger; “ where did you 
get it?” 

“At the asylum.” 

There was heard a step at the door at this moment, and 
Ben Thompson himself entered. The stranger rose with a 
polite bow, and said : 

“ Mr. Thompson, I suppose?” 

“ That’s the name I sail under,” Ben answered. 

“Well, sir, my name is Gass— Hugh Gass.” 

Old Ben dropped in a chair ; his mouth was wide open. 
After a few moments he gasped : 

“ You — you are ” 

“ Yes, I am this child’s uncle,” Gass coolly answered. 

“Well, what d’ye intend to do? Shiver my fore-top- 
gallant ef I am going to give up the child, nohow ; it don’t 
make no sort o’ difference what you are ” 

“Don’t fly into a passion. Mi'. Thompson, ” said Gass, 
coolly, while he turned his baleful-looking eyes on the 
frightened child. Lillie Day, alias Isola Clarendon, shrank 
from him as she would from a monster. “ I do not know 
that I will dispossess you of the child. She is entitled to 
great wealth, and her rights must not be debarred. ” 

“No — no. But let us keep her,” groaned Aunt Peggy. 

“ That will be OAving to circumstances,” said Gass. “If 
you keep her you must obey me to the letter. She is en- 
titled to great wealth. There are those who Avould like to 
put her out of the way, in order that they might inherit it. 
If you will consent to keep the child hidden, deny that you 
ever got it from the asylum, leave here with her, and let 
no one but myself know where she is, you can I'etain her; 
if not, I must take her myself.” 

“We will agree to anything, justeo we keep the baby,” 
sobbed Aunt Peggy. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

MR. BELMONT’S LOSSES. 

Mr. George Belmont Avas one of Wall Street’s heaviest 
speculators. He had been long among the bulls and bears, 
until he had gained that confidence in himself S3 essential 
to a speculator. 

Not only in the Exchange itself, but outside, his specula- 
tions AA^ere carried on. When Union Pacific stock was on 
the decline he bought up all he could get. He kneAV it 
would require some capital to hold over, but he had it ; 
down went evez-ything loAver and loAver, until a general 


74 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 


collapse was feared, but Belmont held on like grim death 
to what he had, and finally, Avhen stocks took an upward 
bound, unloaded, making nearly a million by the transac- 
tion. 

Did he ever feel any compunction of conscience about 
the daughter who had loved him so dearly, and whom he 
had cast ruthlessly from his door? We cannot say. Men 
who live in the whirl and excitement of Wall Street possess 
but little sympathies. They have time for nothing save 
the general business which seems to absorb their very be- 
ing. 

There is a wild desire on the part of all to triumph, to be 
a money king, or railroad monarch, and speculation and 
gambling in stocks seem to absorb their general attention. 
But George Belmont, sometimes in the stillness of the 
night, seemed to hear that cry of his first-born, as he heard 
it that stormy night on the front stoop of his house. Her 
voice from dreamland, seemed to still appeal to the man 
of business. Did he have a heart still? If he had it was 
certainly touched. _ 

He never knew what the fate of his daughter was. She 
seemed to have been swallowed up by the great black 
tempest into which he had driven her. Then it was no 
wonder that her voice sometimes seemed calling to him 
from that awful darkness: “Oh! father, father! will you 
allow your own child to be driven out on the street to per- 
ish?” 

He had refused to see Una on that night. True, his heart 
impelled him' to take to his arms an erring child, but his 
aristocratic wife would not hear of it. 

“I will dispose of her,” she had said to her husband as 
he rose, and she pushed him to his seat. We have seen 
how the hard-hearted step-mother disposed of Una, whom 
she never loved, sending her and her baby forth into the 
darkness and storm. 

“ I don’t know that it was right,” said Mr. Belmont 
to his aristocratic wife the next morning when the subject 
of Una’s expulsion was discussed at the breakfast-table. 

“You don’t!” said Mrs. Belmont, haughtily, as she 
brushed aside her drooping bangs. “ Well, if you don’t, I 
do. Such a creature as she shall never disgrace the roof be- 
neath which I and my children live ! Never ! If she stays 
here, we will leave !” 

“She is gone,” said the husband, sadly. 

“ A good riddance. She never was obedient. She was 
always headstrong.” 

“ I don’t think you ever loved her.” 

“ No, I never did !” returned the step-mother, spitefully. 


LOST TO THE Tl^ORLD, 75 

“If it will relieve you any by my saying so, I hated 
her.” 

“ I thought so.” 

“ Well, what are you going to do about it?” 

“Nothing.” 

“Avery sensible conclusion. Now, let us change the 
subject. I am going to give a ball soon, and I want Mr. 
Gaines to assist me.” 

“ It seems to me, my dear, that the most proper person 
to assist you on a grand occasion like that would be your 
husband.” 

“Oh, don’t be jealous of Tom Gaines, now don’t,” said 
Mrs. Belmont, with a toss of her pretty head ; for she was 
handsome, though past thirty years of age. “You can 
think of nothing save your stocks and bonds and loans. 
You are a bore as a society man.” 

“ But Gaines is a speculator.” 

“ What if he is? He is a society man as well, and he 
can aid me in my selections and decorations by his wise 
suggestions. ” 

If Mr. Belmont was a man of iron and steel with others, 
he was soft and pliable as wax with his wife. She could 
shape and mold him to her will. 

The ball came off, and the success of it she declared was 
greatly owing to the suggestions of Mr. Gaines. Mr. 

. Gaines speculated Avith Belmont in numerous things, and 
had always been so successful that Belmont trusted some- 
times exclusively to his judgment. 

“ Belmont,” said a speculator one day to him, as he was 
in the act of leaving the Stock Exchange, “do you not put 
too much confidence in Gaines?” 

“No, I think not. Why?” 

“I believe he is only a sharp scoundrel,” said the man, 
who, like Belmont, was an ex-merchant, avIio had come to 
dabbling with Wall Street stocks. 

“ Well, Gaines has proven himself veiy successful.” 

“ Oh, well, his success for himself may be all right, and 
yet Avhen he comes to deal for others it may be all Avrong.” 

“ I hardly understand you,” Belmont said; “but I can 
assure you that Gaines has been of great advantage to me. 
He has never failed me.” 

“You knoAvthat Josh Billings says a mule Avill be do- 
cile for ten years in order to get a chance to kick some 
one!” 

“ And do you think that applies to Tom Gaines?” 

“I do.” 

Well, I Avill take my risks,” said Belmont, doggedly. 

It Avas only a few months after the ex-merchant had suf- 
fered his daughter to be driven from his door. The affair 


76 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 


had never become fully known, though there were grave 
whispers in the circle in which the Belmonts moved of a 
skeleton in the closet But the Belmonts, especially Mrs. 
Belmont, was such a social luminary that the tongue of 
scandal withered in disgust ere it had a chance to breathe 
aught against the name. 

But in business circles, where Belmont himself moved, 
it gained more credence. People would occasionally talk 
of it. He was known as the iron-willed father, whose 
daughter by his first wife had gone to ruin. That he had 
driven her from "his door into the storm was not believed, 
Mr. Belmont was a silent, moody man. He was almost 
sullen. Many who knew him in business did not find him 
pleasant. 

There were those who had known him in his early life 
when he was blithe and gay and merry as a lark ; they 
could not recognize him now. 

“ Mr. Belmont, by the advice of Gaines, had invested 
largely in Transcontinental stock. It was thought to be a 
bargain at the time. The day was a busy one; and Mr. 
Belmont told Gaines to buy what he thought prudent in his 
name. 

A week later he was sitting in his private room at home, 
when Gaines entered. There was a dejected air about him, 
and he said ; 

“ Have you heard it yet?” 

“ Heard what?” 

“ About the Transcontinental stock?” 

“No. What of it?” 

“ It has gone down.” 

* ‘ Do wn ! How much ?” 

“ Forty per cent.” 

“ Good Heaven!” groaned the agonized man, starting to 
his feet. “ Forty per cent. !” 

“That is the report; and it is undoubtedly true,” said 
Gaines. 

“Why, I’m ruined!” 

“No— no; not so bad, friend Belmont,” said Gaines, 
blandly ; “let us hope not so bad as all that. You can tide 
over.” 

“Tide over the deuce! I have over twenty thousand 
shares, and all Avill have to be met to-morrow.” 

“ That’s bad.” 

“ How much does it leave on your hands?” 

“ Oh, not over three or four thousand, but I will feel the 
loss keenly.” 

The scoundrel really knew all the time that Transconti- 
nental stock was on the decline, and had acted as an agent 
jEgy himself and others to unload their shares upon Belmont. 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 


77 


At the present time he had not a single share, and while he 
appeared very much dejected, he was chuckling with de- 
light, because he had saved a liandsome sum of half a mil- 
lion. 

Mr. Belmont was almost furious. He started to his feet, 
and cried : 

“ Sir, did you not advise me to buy Transcontinental?” 

“ No— no, not exactly.” 

“You hound— you he!” 

“ Oh, Mr. Belmont, do try to calm yourself, ’’said Gaines, 
in a whining, conciliatory tone. “ Do not get furious at 
me. ” 

‘ ‘ Furious at you, you rascal ! — when you have ruined 
me 1” 

“ Oh, no, no. See, I have lost, too. My losses are 
great ” 

“ A mere nothing compared to mine, you villain. There’s 
a decline of forty per cent., and I purchased— or, rather, 
you purchased for me— twenty thousand more shares than 
I already had last week.” 

“ But, Mr. Belmont, you can tide over.” 

“ I have not the money to carry the stock. To-morrow 
is pay-day, too.” 

“ But you can raise money to cany it over.” 

“ Raise money by ruining my friends.” 

“ Don’t despaii-.” 

“ I’ve a notion to wring your neck, you infernal scoun- 
drel. That's what a man gets for depending on tlie in 
tegrity of a knave.” 

“ Oh, Mr. Belmont, don’t.” 

At this moment Mrs. Belmont entered upon the scene. 
She saw her husband furious and shaking his fist threaten- 
ingly in the face of the man before him. The man was her 
dear friend, the worthy Mr. Tom Gaines. She shrieked 
and sprung forward, seized her husband’s arm and held 
him until he grew more calm, and Mr. Tom Gaines could 
make his exit. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

THE REMOV^VL TO CHICAGO. 

Hugh Gass did not leave the old couple who had Una’s 
child until he had them thoroughly intimidated. 

“If you will obey me to the letter,” he said, “you shall 
be permitted to I’etain the child.” 

“Oh, we’ll do anything — we’ll do anything, so that we 
may keep our precious treasure with us,” said Aunt 
Peggy. 

“Yes, shipmate, just show us the course you want us to 


78 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 


rail, and we will steer for it as near as the compass can 
guide us,” said old Ben Thompson, passing his hand over 
his heated face. 

“The first thing to do,” said Gass, “is to keep your 
mouths close.” 

“You understand, Peggy, we’re to keep closed hatch- 
ways.” 

“ Above all things do not intimate to Wicket that I have 
been here at all.” 

“We will not, we will not,” said Aunt Peggy. 

“ He means well, but he cannot aid us, and might ruin 
all by being in our secret.” 

“Oh, yes — yes,” sobbed Aunt Peggy. 

“ I will watch over you, and, if danger should come, will 
warn you. 

“Yes— yes.” 

The villain took up his hat, and after casting a few fur- 
tive glances about the room, and allowing his baleful eyes 
to rest a moment on the child, he left the house. Old Ben 
Thompson bowed his head in his hands, and Aunt Peggy 
sobbed aloud. 

Gass went back to his room to wait until the proper time 
came. The father and mother of the child both being dead, 
he thought that there need be no particular hurry to de- 
clare its identity to its grandfather. 

In the meantime he would go to his lawyer to discuss 
the matter with him. 

“ Good-morning Mr. Gass,” said the attorney, as that 
worthy entered his oflSce one day. 

“Good-morning, sir. I came this morning to get some 
information upon a matter which we discussed some 
months ago.” 

“ Well, are you about ready to close the matter up?” 

“ I can’t say that I am. I want to consult you first as to 
the propriety of pushing it to a final termination.” 

“ Well, go ahead and let us hear v/hat you have to say 
about it.” 

“You have perhaps heard of the episode of old Belmont’s 
daughter?” 

“Yes.” 

“ Well, she left a child.” 

“What became of her?” asked the lawyer. 

“ For a moment Gass was silent, and then he said: 

“She is dead beyond a doubt.” 

“ And left a child?” 

“Yes. Will that child inherit what its mother was en- 
titled to?” 

“There is nothing now to inherit,” answered the lawyer, 
coolly. 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 


79 


“ Why, sir, what do you mean?’’ 

“ I mean what I say. Old Belmont is broke flat. He 
lost his seat in the Exchange, and to-day his house will be 
sold from over his head. ” 

“ Gass rubbed his hands triumphantly, and smiled sar- 
castically on the lawyer as he anwered: 

“ But, do you know that Una Belmont was entitled to a 
fortune from her mother?” 

“Eh! What! is that so?” cried the lawyer. 

“ It is, and was fixed in her name so her father could 
not touch it. It came really from her grandfather.” 

“ Her grandfather ?” 

“ Yes, from her grandfather through her mother,” said 
Gass, still smiling and rubbing his hands almost gleefully. 

“Well, that may alter the case,” said the lawyer. “Is 
the property in such a shape that Belmont himself cannot 
get it?” 

“ It is, or soon can be.” 

“ And the child?” 

“Well, I can put my hand on the child at a moment’s 
warning.” 

“ Is it a legitimate or illegitimate child?” 

“Will that make a difference?” 

“It will.” 

“ Then I think there will be no great difficulty in prov- 
ing it either way.” 

“You will be a most excellent client,” said the lawyer, 
smiling. ‘ ‘ But in this case we will want to make out a 
case of legitimacy.” 

“ We can do that, I think. Now, the plan which I had 
thought upon, was to take the child beyond the reach of 
its grandfather, and then I will be appointed her guardian 
and come back to defend her rights.” 

“ Why, Gass, I declare, you would have made an excel- 
lent lawyer if you had turned your attention to it.” 

“Is my plan a good one?” 

“ A most excellent plan.” 

“And you approve it?” 

I most assuredly do; but how much property will this 
young heiress be entitted to?” 

Gass took from his pocket a schedule of property, mostly 
real estate in the city of New York, and said: 

“ Now, prepare your pencil and paper, and take down 
whatever you may regal'd the value of the property I give 
you.” 

The lawyer did as requested, and then the villain pro- 
ceeded to read off propei’ty. The lawyer fixed his own 
values, and put them reasonably low until the list was gone 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 


m 

through. It footed up considerably over four hundred 
thousand dollars. 

“ Why, I do declare that is something worth striving 
for,” said the lawyer. 

“I want to control that,” said Gass, after a few mo- 
ments’ silence. 

“ Do you think the grandfather will object?” 

“ Of course. Old Belmont imagines that he really owns 
that property himself.” 

“Did not his daughter know that she was entitled to 
it?” 

“ Never to her dying day. Her father kept that a sacred 
secret. I got the main facts from the records.” 

“ Which are the safest.” 

“ Belmont has attempted to convey some of this prop- 
erty, and has covered the rest with mortgages.” 

“ They will prove valueless if the child, a real heir, can 
be produced.” 

“ Have no fears about the proof. I can make that clear. 
In case there was no child, who would be entitled to the 
property?” 

“ The girl’s father, to be sure. He would inherit it from 
his daughter.” 

“ Well, then, we had better be careful of every move we 
make on the checker board. The child must be got out of 
the way ; and I must, as its guardian, enter suit against 
the parties now in possession of the property. That will 
try the questions of title.” 

“ Yes. First the will must be procured of Una Belmont’s 
grandfather. Then you must get proof of her marriage, 
the birth, and identity of the child, and you have every- 
thing about complete.” 

“Trust me to find ample proofs,” said Gass, smiling se- 
renely, while he rubbed the palms of his hands together. 
“I have carefully prepared the way for everything, my 
dear sir.” 

Gass arose, and the lawyer arose also. The lawyer 
clapped Gass on the back and declared him a most mag- 
nificent fellow. They paused a few moments, both lean- 
ing on the lawyer’s desk, while they discussed the question 
of fees and profits, with a fe\v other important items. 

Then Gass took his departure and went to his hotel. 
One point agreed on by Gass and his lawyer was that they 
should act at once. Gass knew his man before he ap- 
X)roached him. He knew the lawyer to be as unscrupulous 
as he himself, and that he could be relied upon, especially 
when there were large fees expected to follow. 

Gass also knew as well as his lawyer that the longer 
matters were delayed, the more complicated they would 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 


81 


become. If they struck before Belmont was entirely sunk 
in his OAvn wreck, they would have less trouble than to 
wait. If men were foolish enough to loan him money se- 
cured by property not his own, they must sink in the 
common ruin with the man they had attempted to benefit. 

Tliat same evening Gass closed up his business in the 
city. He had saved a little money, sufficient for immedi- 
ate needs, and i*epaired as soon as it was dark to the hum- 
ble home of the sailor. He carefully reconnoitered the 
premises before he ventured to the door. There was some 
one within, and creeping up to the window, he saw Jim 
Wicket standing on the floor. He left the humble abode 
of these honest people, and Gass himself entered. 

“ Good-evening, my friends,” he said, rubbing his hands 
together fervently. “ I hope you ai’e well, for I have some 
startling news for you.” 

“Startling news!” cried Peggy, as both she and her hus- 
band started to their feet. 

“ What is it, shipmate? A squall coming up?” 

“Yes,” said Gass, sinking into a chair. “A squall is 
coming, and you must scud befoi’e it.” 

“ All right, shipmate. We’ll make everything taut and 
trim, and weather the gale.” 

“ But you cannot weather this gale. Our enemies, the 
enemies of this child, have traced it here. There is not an 
hour to lose, if you would not have it torn from your 
arms. Pack up, pack up! We must begone; we must 
leave before morning.” 

“ Where?” the frightened people asked. 

“ I will take you; trust me. Be ready to go in half an 
hour. Do not let a mortal know Avhere you are going. 
Go get a carriage, Ben, to convey us all to the depot. 
Stay, I will go with you. Pack up, Peggy; pack up!” 

She did pack up as if her life depended on it. Before 
the old people hardly knew it, they, with their effects, were 
conveyed to the depot, placed on a train, and whirling 
westward. Gass had procured their tickets, and, until the 
conductor came around, they did not know where they 
were going. 

Then old Ben glanced timidly at his own ticket, with 
many coupons attached, which read from New York to 
Chicago. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 
an avowal of love. 

Slowly the actress recovered her health. Mr. Morgan, 
the manager, came to see her frequently, and when she 


82 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 


was able to sit in her easy-chair, he was frequently at her 
side, where he would sit for hours. 

One day he found her gazing out of the window upon the 
crowded street. The sun which had struggled through a 
dense old London fog, was shining upon the quaint old 
houses with curious old gables and towei-s, hundreds of 
years old. She seemed to be looking upon the scene, which 
is quaint and curious to an American. But the stare in her 
face was one of vacancy. She did not gaze with any 
degree of intelligence. Her mind was far, far away 
across the sea to one dearer than life. 

“I hope I find you much better. Miss Vandell,” said the 
manager . 

“lam better— much better,” she answered; “but, Mr. 
Morgan, there is a matter of business, about which I wish 
to speak.” 

“What is it?” he asked quickly. “If you are strong 
enough to talk about business, I can assure you nothing 
would gratify me more.” 

“I am strong enough, I can assure you, Mr. Morgan,” 
she answered. “ Was my debut a success?” 

“A grand success. Miss Vandell,” said the manager; 
“ and had you not been taken with that illness, our fort- 
unes would have been made.” 

“ I will soon be able to go on the stage again.” 

“ I hope so.” 

“ Do you think I would draw a good house?” 

“A good house!” cried the manager, enthusiastically; 
“ why, no house in London would hold the audience. The 
whole city has been waiting in anxious expectation your 
recovery. The newspapers were full of your debut, and 
your sudden illness gave a tragic appearance and sym- 
pathy to the whole affair. It has increased your popularity 
day by day. The newspapers have morning and evening 
noted your progress toward recoveiy. Your name has 
been so well kept alive before the public that you have 
grown famous.” 

She turned her sad dark eyes upon him as though she 
cared but little about fame. There was an earnest longing 
about her which was strange to the manager. 

“ Was that first night a financial success?” she asked. 

“Yes,” answered the puzzled manager, looking out of 
the window. Success as it had proved, the proceeds were 
barely enough to pay liis enormous expenses. 

“ I would like, Mr. Morgan, to have some money,” she 
said, with that diffidence which an inexperienced person 
asks for money from an employer. 

“You shall have it,” he said, “ Our expenses have been 


LOST TO THE WORLD, 


83 


very groat, but I think we caii scrape some together for 
you. Have not your wants here heeh supplied?” 

“ Oh, yes — yes,” she answered with a sigh, as she brushed 
a tear from her eyes. “You have been very kind to me. 
I want for nothing here, but I want to send some money 
away — to — to one whom I fear is in need.” 

The manager opened his eyes wide with astonishment. 
He felt that there was some mystery about her — a some- 
thing which she could not or would not reveal, and yet he 
respected her feelings too much to attempt, in her weak 
condition, to get at her secret. During those moments of 
unconsciousness there had been strange, incoherent mur- 
murs of love. “Oh, my little darling, my little darling!” 
she had called again and again, as she lay upon her bed of 
pain and anguish. 

Some of these words were heard by the manager, and he 
was deeply moved as well as mystified by them, but he had 
resolved never to attempt to probe the secret. 

“ I will get you a few pounds in a day or two. Miss Van- 
dell,” he said. “I have been running a small company 
with indifferent success during your illness, but as soon as 
you are well we will have plenty.” 

That evening, when alone, she called for pen, ink, and 
paper, and sitting down to the stand, addressed a letter to 
the matron of an orphan asylum hospital in New York. 

“ I have forgotten which it was,” she said, pressing her 
hands to her forehead. “Oh, I only wish I knew the num- 
ber of the street or name of the asylum; but these troubles 
seem to dim my recollection. The baby was left at one 
under an assumed name, and I can’t remember what the 
assumed name was. Oh, I do wish I could only remember, 
but I cannot.” 

She wrote her letter — a kind of a random inquiry, and 
had it posted. Then she waited eagerly for the answer. 
Weeks passed before it came. She was by this time almost 
strong enough to go on the stage again. The letter was 
from the New York Asylum and Foundling Hospital, and 
written by the matron. 

“Miss Vandell,” it read, “your letter was buffeted 
around considerable, owing to the random way in which 
it was addressed, and as no one knew where you wanted 
it to go. At last it fell into my hands, and although I do 
not know whether it was intended for me or not, I take the 
liberty of answering you. There have been so many ba- 
bies left at our institution in the past two years, that it 
will be impossible for me to say whether the one about 
which you inquire was left here or not, especially as you 
do not know under what name it was left. The best plan for 
you would be to come over to America yourself and hunt 


84 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 


Tip the child. I have no doubt that you will be able to find 
it.” Then followed a long eulogy upon the orphan asylum 
of which she was matron, and a hope that she might soon 
see the English lady who was interested in some found- 
ling. 

The actress bowed her head on her hands and wept bit- 
terly. 

“Oh, Heaven! shall ! ever see it again? Kind, merciful 
Father, grant that I may.” 

All her wild passion was gone in a few moments. She 
knew that grief was dangerous to her health, and if she 
could but regain that, there might be a hope of some day 
being able to recross the mighty deep and engaging in that 
search. 

From that time she seemed to regain her health more 
rapidly. A week or two later, when the manager had 
come in to see if she would be well enough to play the 
coining week, he found her more cheerful than she had 
ever seemed before, 

“Oh, yes, yes, yes,” she said, “ I shall be able. Please 
announce me for Monday night next, and put the adver- 
tisement in great flaming letters, so it will draw.” 

“ Are you real certain you will be strong enough?” 

“ Yes, I know I will. There will be no more faintness or 
failures on my part. But there is one request I have to 
make.” 

“What is that?” 

“I want you to hasten that tour in America.” 

The manager looked at her a moment in puzzled surprise. 
Then he said : 

“ I will, Miss Vandell. As soon as we can get enough 
ahead, the tour shall be made. But you must remember 
that we liave nothing now, and I am greatly in debt; with 
the best of success here in London, it will take months be- 
fore we can go. I have risked all on you, but I shall not 
complain. As soon as possible you shall go to America.” 

The announcement that the new actress had recovered 
and would make her first appearance after her long illness 
on the coming Monday filled the whole city with anxiety. 
Her sudden illness had gone to add to her fame, and the 
people for once came early to procure their tickets. 
Though the free list was suspended, every ticket was taken 
before noon on the day she was to appear. 

Miss Vandell looked a little pale, and perhaps her acting 
was a little less passionate than on her first appearance, 
but she was met with rapturous applause. Her physician 
was in the green-room, ready to stop further proceedings 
at the slightest indication of a relapse. But she went 
through, from scene to scene, from act to act, without the 


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85 


slightest unfavorable symptom. The audience were de- 
lighted with her performance, and many critics came to 
the green-room after the performance was over to inquire 
after the health of the star, and congratulate her on her 
excellent acting. 

Night after night she seemed to regain strength and 
popularity. The theater was crowded at every perform- 
ance, and many went away because they were unable to 
procure standing-room. 

Her manager was kind to her, and took every care to 
provide for her comfort. She knew that wealth Avas roll- 
ing into his pockets, and convinced of his honesty, she be- 
lieved he Avould give her her share. She had said nothing 
more about America, though all her thoughts and hopes 
were of crossing the broad Atlantic, and searching for the 
child about which she had written. One day Mr. Morgan 
came to her room. It was midday, and she had just bj*eak- 
fasted. There was the same gentle tenderness in the man- 
ner of Mr. Morgan, yet he seemed more excited than she 
had ever .?een him before. 

“ Miss Vandell,” he said, after they had conversed for 
some time on their business plans for the future, “ there is 
something I must tell you— oh, I must tell you, even if you 
kill me!” 

Her quick instinct seemed at once to divine what he 
would say, and she cried : 

“Oh, no, don’t — don’t, Mr. Morgan.” 

“I will, I will!” he answered, seizing her hands in his. 
“ I love you! There, I have told you all. Kill me if you 
will; I love you, and would gladly die for loving you. 
Wealth is nothing to me compared to my immeasurable 
love for you.” 

“Oh, Mr. Morgan,” she cried, starting up, and trying to 
release her hands, “ do not say that; do not say that. It 
is a mockery, a sacrilege to love me. I— I cannot love; I 
am a base deception ; I am not what I seem. I— I am the 
tvife of another .'” 


CHAPTER XIX. 

THE INDIAN MEDICINE- MAN. 

Far out on the great Western plain where the Sierra 
Madres raise their lofty heads toward the sky, and whei’e 
crystal rivers, fed from the eternal snows, seem the ever- 
lasting waters of life, we noAV invite the attention of our 
reader. It was a spot far more beautiful than the hand of 
man or a skillful artist could create. No skies were so 
blue, no air so balmy, no streams so cleai% no prairies so 
green and lovely, and no forests so tall, with glades so cool 


80 


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and refreshing. It seemed to be that earthly paradise 
through which man might wander, and gather some idea 
of the bliss that lies in future in the land of eternal day. 
The prairie, which stretched away toward the east, re- 
sembled not a little a masterpiece of art. It was dotted all 
over with wild flowers, which were in places sprinkled 
about in careless profusion, and in othern gathered in one 
group of gold, red and violet. 

The antelope fed upon the green, starting shyly at the 
slightest noise, and ready to flee at the sight of a man. 

Just where the forest of trees came down and met the 
prairie, there flowed a small stream of clear cold water. 
Its banks were covered with a growth of tangled weeds, 
grass and small bushes, growing luxuriant in their wild 
profusion, and hiding many a poisonous reptile or fugitive 
animal. 

Struggling through this tangled growth until he reached 
the water’s edge was a weird-looking being. His skin, 
once fair, was bronzed by long exposure to wind and 
weather. His eyes were blue, and his light-brown hair 
hung in long Avavy profusion about his shoulders. He was 
attired in all the fancy geAvgaAvs of a savage, though he 
was beyond doubt a white man. About his eyes Avas that 
Avild, vacant stare Avhich at once declared him a maniac. 

In his hand he carried a long spear, to Avhich was fast- 
ened a steel point. With this weapon he parted the tall 
grass and reeds, carefully feeling his Avay along with his 
moccasined feet. There is about his movements that 
sagacious caution sometimes noticeable with maniacs. 
There Avas also a devilish cunning, peculiar only to in- 
sanity. At times his Avhole demeanor was gentle, his blue 
eyes mild, and manner harmless. Again he Avould be 
roused, and a perfect demon. In such moods he Avas dan- 
gerous, even to his friends. 

“ I must go, I must go.” he murmured-, Avith a Avild 
eagerness, as he strode forth through the tall grass. “I 
must go. I must leave them. The Great Spirit seems 
to call me. She calls me from the other side. Maybe 
it is gone. I may be able to reach her noAv. The fiends 
think I have forsaken her — ha, ha, ha! — Ave shall see— aa’c 
shall see 1” 

Further down the bank of the creek he crept, and Avent 
on until the stream itself was in sight. 

Then he started back suddenly, and placing his hands to 
his face, sank down and groaned : 

“It’s there — it’s thei’e! I can’t cross over. I hear her 
call me — she is calling now— but I cannot come. Oh, I 
must go back. Maybe it Avill go away soon, and then I 
shall be able to cross over on the other side and go to her.” 


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87 


He turned slowly and sadly around, and ascended the 
river-bank. There were tall trees, high rocks, and a dense 
forest on every side. 

“ ITl go back,” said tbe disappointed man, with a sigh. 
He was sad, and his pale blue eyes glistened with tears. 
“She must be very tired of waiting,” he said. “I know 
she weeps for me. I can hear her of an evening when all 
is still, and her voice calls to me from out the darkness to 
come to her. I cannot come ; it’s there— it’s always there ; 
and I cannot cross it. It runs very fast, though, and T 
think it will all run out by morning ; "then I can walk over 
without getting my feet wet.” 

Having ascended the banks of the stream he entered a 
large, dark forest, whose umbrageous folds spread out over 
the earth, protecting it from the fiercer blasts of tempest 
or sunshine. Within its dark glades were many hiding- 
places, where, doubtless, lurked wild and ferocious animals 
ready to spring upon the unwary traveler. 

The singular being we have described seemed to have no 
fear of them. In fact, his mental aberration made him 
alike fearless to all objects save the running stream which 
seemed to ever thwart him, 

A tall, fine-looking Indian warrior stalked silently as a 
ghost down a forest path. He saw the insane man ap- 
proaching him, but Wandering Mind, as he was known 
among the red-men, was no stranger to the savage. He 
had been called Wandering Mind on account of his mental 
ailment, and the savages held him in the highest regard. 
His mental infirmity made him to them a special charge of 
the Great Spirit, and they would, under no circumstances, 
have permitted a hair of his head to be harmed. 

“ Wandering Mind has been to the woods again, ’’said the 
savage, as he came up to where the lunatic had paused, 
and stood leaning on his spear. 

“Yes, it’s there yet— it has not all gone away,” Wander- 
ing Mind answered. 

Both spoke in the Apache tongue. 

“ Of what does the Wandering Mind [speak?” asked the 
Indian. 

“ The river,” 

“ Why does he speak of the river?” 

“ It is there,” said Wandering Mind, sadly. “ It is there 
yet. It won’t all run by, so I can cross over. From the 
other shore the voice of one who loves me dearly is calling 
— calling, calling, and has been calling, lol these many 
years, but I cannot go to her. The river is there; it won’t 
run by, and Wandering Mind is miserable.” 

“ Why should Wandering Mind be miserable, when he is 
the special charge of the Great Spirit?” 


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“ But if the Great Spirit loves me,” said the poor lunatic, 
even more sadly than before, “ why can I not break the 
chains which seem to hold me?” 

The warrior stood and looked sadly in his face, but made 
no answer. He was a solemn- looking Apache, and seldom 
spoke. Wandei’ing Mind knew him well. 

Taking his arm in his hand, the lunatic said : 

“ Don’t you hear her. Leaping Wolf? Can’t you hear 
her calling— calling, calling from out that unknown dim 
distance? And I cannot go to her— no, the Great Spirit 
has decreed that I shall not cross running water. I am 
to w^ait here until all the streams run dry, and then I can 
go.” 

“ The Wandering Mind,” said Leaping Wolf, “is a great 
medicine-man. While he stays in the camp of the Apache 
we will have no more sickness, no more disaster. The 
Wandering Mind must not go.” 

“No, no,” said the lunatic, with a sad smile, “he will 
not go while the water runs. The Great Spirit has decreed 
it, and Wandering Mind will obey.” 

While they stood in the pathway, five more warriors 
stole quietly down the path, and all grouped about the 
lunatic. It was evident that they held him in the highest 
regard. His infirmity was a sufficient safeguard for him- 
self from any danger. Indians always have the highest 
respect for the insane. 

“ Will the Wandering Mind now return with us to the 
wigwam of our chief?” said the oldest warrior present. 

“Yes, Strong Deer, I will go,” said the lunatic, with an- 
other idiotic laugh. “You and I will go first; the others 
will come.” 

Then he walked down the path at the side of the Indian, 
the others following, as is their custom, in single file. 

“Do you hear her. Strong Deer?” Wandering Mind 
asked, when they were on their way. 

“No.” 

“Ido.” 

“The Great Spirit has given you keen ears and sharp 
eyes.” 

“ I cannot see her, but I hear her. She calls to me from 
over the river. Oh, she has waited so long— oh, so long I 
But I cannot go to her.” 

“She may be in the happy hunting-ground,” suggested 
Strong Deer. 

“No, no; she is where I left her. Ah, she is there; but 
where was it? Let me see, I cannot think where it was. 
There was a shock or something.” 

“ The Great Spirit has blessed you,” said Strong Deer. 

“ But what is blessing without her?” 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 


89 


“ Can you not hear the winds whisper about you?” 

“Yes; but every whisper bears her voice. I hear her 
sobs, cries, and groans as she calls to me from that other 
far-off shore. Oh I say, Strong Deei*, why can I not go?” 

“ The Great Spirit says you must not.” 

“You have a strong canoe. Why can you not ferry me 
over to the other shore?” 

“ The Great Spirit says I must not.” 

“It will run dry soon,” said the lunatic, confidentially, 
to the Indian. “ I was down there to-day, and the water 
rushes by very fast. It will soon all be gone out, and then 
I can get over without any assistance.” 

“The water will not run out,” said the Indian, solemnly. 

“It will.” 

“No; it is fed from the snows of the mountains and the 
rains of the valleys.” 

‘ ‘ But the rain will cease to fall, the sun will melt all the 
snow, and then the water will go by. It runs very fast.” 

“ The Wandering Mind must not leave his friends, the 
Apaches. The Great Spirit will be angry,” said the savage 
Strong Deer. 

“ But think of the one I left behind me,” said the medi- 
cine-man. “ I promised her I would return soon. She has 
waited long— oh ! so long. She is waiting now— is calling 
me from the other shore. I can hear her voice, in the still- 
ness of night. The birds bear messages from her to me, 
and in all she bids me come. Oh ! I must go — I must go !” 

They had now reached the small cluster of wigwams 
which constituted the Indian village. 

The savages all met their great medicine-man with all 
the respect due to a monarch, and the best of the chase 
was tendered him. Sometimes he seemed happy, but 
again he rubbed his hand upon his head, along which was 
an ugly scar, and said : 

“ She waits— oh, she waits! Why can I not go to her?” 


CHAPTER XX. 

“ TO AMERICA AND TO SEARCH.” 

Morgan started back at the fearful announcement of the 
actress, and sinking in a chair, buried his face in his 
hands. Miss Vandell stood for a moment appalled by the 
assertion she herself had made. 

The manager groaned, and the actress was silent. Her 
large dark eyes seemed to scintillate like diamonds, and 
for the moment she was deprived of speech. The truth 
had been wrung from her in the awful moment of peril to 
the manager and hei*self. She would have died v/ith the 
secret in her breast had not tiie manager declared his love 


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at a time when her whole soul was fired with thoughts of 
the past. But it was out now. The ice was broken ; and 
almost without knowing what she said, she began : 

“ Forgive me, Mr. Morgan. I. have basely deceived you. 
I am not worthy your confidence and friendship, much 
less your love. I have a dark secret which I have been 
hiding, even at the expense of acting out a lie.” 

“ I know it. Miss Vandell,” said the noble-hearted fel- 
low, without risking himself to look up. “ I knew you had 
a secret. I knew you had been wronged, but I have never 
tried to solve the mystery about you.” 

“You have been my best friend,” said the girl, “and 
Heaven forgive me for having wronged you ! I can never 
outlive this crime, though I did not intend it.” 

“I know it. Miss Vandell — I know it,” said the mana- 
ger. “You have done no wrong; it was I. I was blind 
and weak.” 

“ Listen to me,” she said, eagerly, without paying any 
heed to his self-accusation. “ I am not only a wife, but a 
mother. I was married — yes, in the sight of Heaven it 
was a marriage, though they say I was deceived, and it 
was all a sham. The man 1 married may be a deceiver, 
but I love him yet, and would even though he crushed my 
neck beneath his heel, as he has my heart. He deceived, 
he deserted me, but I love him, and will not allow his 
name to be reproached in my presence. He had another 
wife when he married me, but I cannot but love him. He 
is the father of my child, the only object for which I live, 
and for its sake I could not bear to hear him I'eproached. 
My father cast off myself and my child after my desertion. 
Driven to despair, I placed my child in an orphan asylum, 
and sought death in the river. It seems when I made the 
fatal plunge the hen-coop was floating by the dock, and it 
supported and bore me out to sea, where I was picked up, 
as you know.” 

“ And your name is not Vandell?” 

“No; Vandell is an assumed name.” 

“And your child?” said the manager, after a moment’s 
silence. 

“ During my illness and manifold troubles, I have for- 
gotten at which asylum I left it, and under what name. 
I have written to several asylums, but as I am unable to 
tell them the name under ”vvhich it was registered, I can 
get no information concerning it.” 

A few moments longer the manager sat like one com- 
pletely stunned and confused. His eyes were upon the 
carpet, and he did not venture any further remark for 
several minutes. Somehow, he had for a long time be- 
lieved that there was some mystery attached to this beau- 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 


91 


tiful being, and had been in a measure prepared for the 
disclosure ; but it had fallen with stunning force at last, 
and held him dumb for a few moments. A thousand 
things seemed whirling about in the mind of the manager 
too rapidly to assume even the form of thought. 

After several minutes of painful silence, he said : 

“This accounts for your anxiety to go to America?” 

“Oh, Mr. Morgan !” sobbed the actress, for she was weep- 
ing now, “you cannot understand how anxious I am to go. 
My soul is filled with the desire. My child, my darling 
little Isola among strangers, discarded by every blood 
relative on earth. Oh, you do not know a mother’s heart, 
and can little understand a mother’s anxiety.” 

“ Your wish shall be granted. Miss Vandell— permit me 
to call you yet by your stage name — we will be ready to go 
to America in a month or two at most.” 

“It will be two years since I left it alone,” wept the 
young mother. “ Oh, the little darling may be dead.” 

‘ ‘ Let us hope not, ” said the manager. 

“Mr. Morgan,” she said, “you know my secret now; 
had it not best be kept?” 

“ It shall be religiously kept,” said the manager. 

“ I have tried to find my child. I have only waited for 
money to go in person to search for her.” 

“ We will have the money soon,” said the manager, 
sadly. “Poor broken heart! you have one friend.” 

“ bh, thank you— thank you for those kind words, Mr. 
Morgan,” cried the actress. 

He turned about to leave the room, but paused a mo- 
ment with his hand on the door-knob. His countenance 
showed the pain at his heart, and after a few moments 
he released the door-knob, and, returning to her side— for 
she still reclined, sobbing, on the sofa — he said : 

“Pauline Vandell, or whatever your name may be, I 
have heard all you have said ; but it does not change you 
to me. If you could forget the man who wronged you, and 
give me a portion of your love ” 

“Hold! hold! Mr. Morgan,” she interrupted, rising to 
her feet; “I know what you would say, and I respect 
you too much to allow you to humiliate yourself so. I 
am beneath your love. I love him yet, and cannot wed 
another. Forgive me if I seem harsh ; but I must be so 
for your sake.” 

He was silent a moment, and the color seemed to have 
faded from his face. It was of an ashen hue. The actress 
had only to cast a glance at him to know how deep the 
wound was, and then throwing herself on the sofa, buried 
her face in her hands. 

“ Oh, my God !” she wailed, “ what have I done that my 


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punishment should be so great? I am a monster— fate has 
made me one. I have fought against it. I would be just 
and merciful, but I am most wicked and miserable.” 

“ Do not blame yourself too severely,” said the manager. 
“I have been very foolish. You have never given me 
any reason to hope that my suit would meet with favor. 
In fact, you have rather discouraged me all the time. Let 
us say no more about this at present. Our business rela- 
tions will be the same as ever.” 

“Oh, yes, yes; have no fears. I will perform my part 
faithfully. I will labor more assiduously than ever before 
to win fame and money; but, oh, I want to go to 
America. ” 

“ You shall go.” 

The manager left her. His cheeks were burning with an 
inward fever which seemed to consume him. All about 
him was an uncertain glimmering. Although it was broad 
daylight, he seemed to be looking through a smoked 
glass, and failed to catch the full light and warmth of the 
sun. 

He went mechanically about his business. Long custom 
had made him almost a machine. He found, when he 
reached the office, that every seat was already sold, and 
the people still thronged the box-office, asking for admis- 
sion tickets, willing to take standing-room. 

“Double the price on everything to-morrow, said the 
manager, “ Let the notice go in the papers, and have it on 
the bulletin-boards.” 

Although the price was doubled the next night, the 
theater was packed. Standing-room was far above paj'. 
The price was trebled, and still the theater could not 
contain the audience. The new actress was in real- 
ity a fortune. But Julius Morgan, now that fortune 
had at last smiled on him, felt like scorning the smile. 
What cared he for the wealth which poui*ed into his 
colfers, when she with whom he would divide it could not 
be his? True, a great portion of the wealth and all the 
fame was hers. It was a consolation to him to know that. 
When Morris congratulated him on his success with the 
new actress, he smiled sadly, and said : 

“ I believe, Allen, I will try another American tour.” 

“ With her?” asked Allen Morris. 

“Yes.” 

“ It will pay.” 

“ You would approve it, then?” 

“Of course.” 

“ Well, Morris, you shall go along.” 

“As first business?” 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 


93 


“Yes. I am going to take the whole company if I can 
engage them.” 

“Will she want to go?” 

“ Miss Vandell?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Oh, she is anxious to try this newly-discovered talent 
on her own shore.” 

“ Why, Morgan, she will draw immensely.” 

“Of course she will. Her fame has already preceded 
her.” 

“ Will you introduce her there as an American lady?” 

“No. Americans are more apt to take to something 
foreign. They want nothing, let it be ever so good, of 
their own country. I am going to practice a little harm- 
less fraud on them.” 

The entire company was willing to undertake the Ameri- 
can tour. 

Morgan at once put himself in correspondence with a 
New York manager, and secured the then largest theater 
in the city. 

At the end of two months, preparations for their de- 
parture were complete. 

The new star seemed to grow daily more nervous and 
more anxious to be on the way. A sigh of relief escaped 
her, as she hurried on the deck of the ocean steamer at 
Liverpool which was to take them to New York. As 
anchor was weighed and the propeller plunged them 
through the waves, she paced the deck, apart from the 
others, and wringing h 3r hands, anxiously said : 

“ To America, and to seai’ch, search, search the wide 
world over, or find my darling child !” 


CHAPTER XXI. 

THE FAVORITE. 

The ship which contained Julius Morgan and his com- 
pany proceeded on its voyage with nothing worse than 
contrary winds and calms to contend with. These, of 
course, are not such bugbears to navigation now as they 
were before the invention of steam vessels. 

Morgan had kept aloof from the actress ever since the 
day on which he had avowed his love. She had avoided 
him with studied care. They only spoke on business, and 
thep always in the presence of a third party. 

But when land was in sight, and their vessel lay to, 
signaling for a pilot, the manager walked to the forward 
rail, where the actress stood apart from the others. 

“ I beg pardon. Miss Vandell,” he said, somewhat awk- 


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wardly, “ but I wanted to speak with you alone, and have 
taken this opportunity.” 

“ No apologies, Mr. Morgan; it’s on business, I presume.” 

“Yes; or rather matters concerning you more than my- 
self.” 

“ What are they?” 

“You have come here with other designs besides the 
stage !” 

“I have,” she said, her lip quivering. “ I have come to 
search the continent over to find my child.” 

“ Do you intend to commence that search at once?” 

“Ido.” 

“You have relatives in the city?” 

“ Yes; my father lives there.” 

“ Do you want him to know you?” 

“ No, no. I will live incognito with the Avhole world.” 

“ Then you can search and go on the stage?” 

“That is my design, Mr. Morgan. No one but yourself 
knows my secret. Will you aid me?” 

“ With all my ability.” 

“ And my secret?” 

“ I have promised to keep it, and I shall certainly do so, 
let the results be what they may.” 

He fixed his eyes with a strange fondness upon the beau- 
tiful woman before him, as she reclined against the rail, 
her head resting on her hand. Those dark eyes fixed upon 
the waves, and the long, silken lashes reaching almost to 
the peach-like cheek, seejned to her manager the most 
attractive and lovely sight he had ever beheld. He heaved 
a gentle sigh ; she observed him, and raising her eyes until 
they met his, said : 

“Mr. Morgan, my most generous friend, it is veiy silly 
of you to sigh.” He was silent, and she went on; “ When 
you first saw me, your only hopes and desires were to bring 
me before the public and make a success. You have done 
so, and I trust I have not disappointed you.” 

“You have not, Miss Vandell; you have been more than 
I could have hoped for as an actress ; but ” 

“ Add nothing more, Mr. Morgan. You have proven my 
best friend. I can never regard you high enough. There 
is nothing I would not do for you ; but we can be no nearer 
than never-dying friends.” 

The manager sighed again. Oh, vain regret which comes 
to torture the soul ! How he wished he had never met the 
being before him ! She was present, yet in an evanescent 
way, liable at any moment to disappear from him for- 
ever. 

“ You are more sensible than I, Miss Vandell,” said the 
manager. “I shall annoy you no more with my sighs. 


LOST TO THE WOULD. 


95 


Some day, when we are calmer, I will ask you to tell me 
all. It would be better it I knew all.” 

“ You shall.” 

“ There comes our pilot, and we shall soon steam into 
the New York harbor. I suppose you would prefer to be 
alone?” 

“ Oh, yes, if you please, Mz*. Morgan ; there are many un- 

? leasant emotions which will be aroused by sight of New 
'ork. Tliank you, I would rather be alone.” 

The manager left her, and joined a group of his players 
with a gayety he was far from feeling. Tiie pilot- boat came 
alongside and put on a pilot. Then the ocean steamer be- 
gan t^o steam through the water. 

Poor Una Belmont stood leaning against the I’ail, her 
eyes dimmed with the tears of sadness and hope wliich 
trickled down her cheeks. Mr. Morgan managed to keep 
others from interrupting ber. One delay followed another, 
and it was late on the next day before the vessel ran into 
her pier on North Eiver. 

“We are billed for the stage to-night,” said the man- 
ager. “Had our ship not been so far behind, we shouhl 
have had three days to rest, and recuperate, but as it is 
we are compelled to go to work at once.” 

Una, or Miss Vandell, to whom he spoke, merely bowed. 
They had reached the hotel where the troupe was to re- 
main, and the new English star had retired to her apart- 
ment, whither the manager had followed her. 

“ There is one matter I came in to speak of, Miss Van- 
dell,” said Mr. Morgan. 

She raised her dark humid eyes to his, in a half-plead- 
ing manner. The manager observed her, and went on : 

“ One or two days can make no difference, Miss Vandell. 

I know what your inclinations are, but I assui-e you that 
nothing can be done by haste at present, especially as you 
desire your secret kept. This search, to be successful, 
must be carried on in a systematic manner, and I shall 
ever be ready to render you all the assistance in my 
power,” 

She bowed her head in silence for a few moments, while 
anxious tears dropped silently down her damask cheek. 
But recovering herself a moment afterward, she said : 

“ Mr. Morgan, you have ever proven a wise friend, and 
I cannot gainsay what you have said. In fact, I admit 
the wisdom of j^our advice, and will obey you.” 

“ Thank you, and you shall not have cause to regret it,” 
answered the manager. Ah, how well she remembered 
another man, whom she trusted with her life and happi- 
ness, had said the same thing, and how he had betx'ayed 
his trust. She had trusted another, but with Morgan thci e 


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was an air of business honesty which assured her he would 
be true and faithful. After a few moments Mr. Morgan 
again spoke : 

“Do you think you will be sufficiently recovered to per- 
form to-night?” 

“ Yes,” she answered, meekly. 

“The theater will be packed, our New York agent as- 
sures us. All tickets have been sold at an exorbitant price 
a week ahead, and the people were at the box in vast 
crowds, clamoring for standing room.” 

She wiped the tears from her ej" es and smiled a sad sort 
of a smile, as she said : 

“ I greatly fear I shall not come up to the expectation of 
the American public.” 

“ Have no fears of that, but act your part as you always 
have. The public may expect that you will be tired to- 
night, and that you will hardly be at your best. I will 
leav('- you now to rest while you can, and be pi-epared to do 
your best to-night.” 

He left her alone, and she reclined upon the sofa while 
she glanced over the manuscript part of her play. In the 
reading-room Morgan met with his fi-iend Morris. 

“ Let us take a walk, Morris,” said the manager to the 
actor. “ Suppose we go to the theater?” 

“ I am willing,” said Morris, with a laugh. “The truth 
is I have been cramped up so long on a vessel that I feel 
very much now like stretching my limbs.” 

They went out upon busy, thronged Broadway, as it al- 
ways is. The roar of thousands of wheels and hoofs, with 
the rush of pedestrians hurrying by in the mad race of life, 
were enough to startle one accustomed to sober old Lon- 
don. The manager and actor went to the box-office, and 
after a short interview with the New York manager, went 
into the theater itself, to examine the stage and scenery. 
Everything had been arranged according to Morgan’s 
directions. 

“ Everything is sold,” said the manager. “ We have not 
a seat or box left, and I have sold all the standing room I 
dared sell.” 

“We can, then, be assured of a good audience?” 

“Oh, yes; we could pack two theaters. I have turned 
hundreds away, because I was unable to furnish them with 
seats. All have promised to come again, and come earlier. 
Everything is about sold for this week.” 

“ I am glad to find we will begin so prosperously,” said 
Morgan. 

“Prosperously? I should think so. Why, there never 
was a name announced in New York which so completely 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 


took the public by storm. They seem to go mad over 
her. 

That night, when the curtain rose, the house was packed. 
The aisles were full, and standing room all taken up. The 
actress was greeted by thunders of applause as she came 
on the stage. She acknowledged the reception by a grace- 
ful bow and smile, and began to go through with her 
part. 

She seemed to be living it all out, instead of acting a 
part. To her it was a fearful reality, yet there was always 
present, in a general sort of a way, the recollection that 
she was only acting, and in the city of her nativity. She 
could not help looking around her to see if there were not 
some familiar faces. 

She did not know but her own child might be in that vast 
throng. Without knowing it, it might even now be listen- 
ing to its mother’s voice. She was sometimes so intense 
in her anxiety to see some familiar face that she seemed 
to hesitate in her part. 

But she never so completely lost herself that it in any 
way interrupted her play more than a moment at a time; 
and such an enthusiastic audience as she had was willing 
to attribute any little breaks to the fatigue of her long 
journey. 

At the close of one act she caught a glimpse of some one 
seated in the second balcony who seemed familial*. She 
was encored until she came out from behind the curtain, 
then fixed her eyes on the familiar face. It teas her father. 
She bowed hastily, and turning about, hurried back into 
the green-room, where she threw herself upon a sofa and 
buried her face in her hands. She caught but a moment- 
ary glance of him, but in that glance she had noticed how 
haggard his countenance and how cheap his clothes. Had 
some terrible calamity befallen him? she thought. Did he 
recognize her? 

When her time came to go on the stage again she was 
quite nervous and excited. She tried to quiet her wildly- 
beating heart. But receiving her cue, she went on boldly, 
and tried by master acting to cover up her emotions. It 
was a scene where she played the part of a discarded 
daughter, and so earnest and deep were her appeals to the 
cruel parent to spare her, that many wept aloud. 

At the conclusion of the act tliere was a groan and fall 
of a body ; but the curtain fell, and beyond the knowledge 
that some one in the audience had swooned, they knew not 
what occasioned the commotion. 

When next the actress came on the stage, she observed 
that the seat her father had occupied was vacant. The 
play was ended, and Pauline Vandell was the favorite of 


99 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 


the great American meti’opolis. Little cared i5he for the 
fame or wealth she had won, as she lay that night, sob- 
bing, on her bed. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

THE STRANGE MEETING. 

Night after night the new favorite was greeted by en- 
thusiastic audiences. There are those yet living who re- 
member with what I’apturethat mysterious actress was re- 
ceived. She never saw her father any moi’e, and the sad 
story of his downfall was unknown to her. She was filled 
with sorrowful thoughts of him when she remembered 
that pale, haggard face. Somehow all the bitterness she 
had ever hoarded up in her heart against him was now 
gone. She felt that in his distress she could forgive him, 
for she knew he was in distress. 

It was three or four days before she expressed her desire 
to begin the search. Mr. Morgan, with a smile, said : 

“We will begin now, at once. I expected you were 
growing impatient. I will call a carriage, and we will 
go to the orphan asylums one by one until we have found 
it.” 

Of course it created no great surprise when the manager 
and the star actress took a ride through the city, for it 
was generally understood that they were betrothed, though 
no word had been let fall fi’om the lips of either to con- 
firm the general suspicion which prevailed in the com- 
pany. 

“Now, which asylum do you propose visiting first?” 
asked the manager when they were in the carriage. 

“ I do not know,” was the answer. 

“You do not remember where the child w^as left?” 

“No.” 

“Can you not remember the matron’s name?” 

i“No.” 

“Nor any person in the asylum?” 

“Yes; I remember the name of the nurse who had the 
care of my baby was a Mrs. Mortimer— a Mrs. Henrietta 
Mortimer, I think.” 

“ Well, that is something.” 

“ 1 also remember the name of the clerk in the establish- 
ment.” 

“ What was it?” 

“ Wicket— Jim Wicket he called himself.” 

“Well, that is more than something; that is twice as 
much,” said the managei-. 

The coachman had driven to Madison Square Garden, 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 99 

according to orders, and then reined in his horse, and with 
the conventionality of a New York coachman, said : 

“Where now, boss?” 

Mr. Morgan took from his pocket a paper, on which he 
had taken from the directory a list of all the orphan asy- 
lums in the city. He called out the first, and told the 
driver to go there. 

Away rattled the carriage, and soon they brought up in 
front of the door of a substantial- looking brick building. 

Oh, how wildly poor Una’s heart beat as she was as- 
sisted from the carriage ! 

“Is this the place?” Mr. Morgan asked, kindly, as he 
took her arm. 

She looked up at it a moment, while a film seemed to 
come over her eyes. 

“No, I fear not,” she said. “It doesn’t look at all fa- 
miliar to me.” 

“ We will go in and see if the persons whom you men- 
tioned as knowing are employed, or ever have been here.” 

They found a sour, prim-looking woman in charge. Her 
features were sharp and her voice shrill and rasping. 
When Mr. Morgan asked if a Avoman had ever been em- 
ployed as a nurse in the establishment named Mortimer, 
she answered ; 

“ Never heard of such a person in my life.” 

“ Was there ever a man employed here named Jim 
Wicket?” 

“Never heard of such a person in my life,” she an- 
swered. 

“Then I presume further inquiry is useless,” said Mr. 
Moi-gan to his fair companion, who was trembling vio- 
lently. 

“ No, no. I know this is not the place,” she answered. 
There was a loolc of indignant scorn and acrimonious dis- 
like of herself and the manager on the face of the matron, 
which filled the poor actress with horror. “Heaven be 
praised that my child Avas not left in such a place as this!” 
she mentally ejaculated, as they AA’ent doAvn the front steps 
to the pavement Avhere the carriage stood. 

“ Whei’e now?” asked the drivei-. 

The manager gave him the name of another asylum 
Avhere he Avanted him to drive, and the carriage rattled 
aAvay. 

At this they were alike unsuccessful. No one in the 
establishment knew anything of such persons, nor had 
they ever been in employment there. 

They Avent to their carriage, and drove aAvay to another. 
When the carriage stopped at the side of the pavement and 


100 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 


they alighted, the actress clutched the arm of her compan- 
ion and whispered : 

“ This is the place— oh, this is the place!” 

She trembled so violently, and had suddenly become so 
weak, that if Morgan had not supported her she must have 
fallen to the ground. 

“Courage, courage!” he whispered in her ear. 

“Oh, I cannot. What if it should be dead?” she an- 
swered. 

“ No ; hope for the best. You may be with your child in 
a few moments, or know where it is, and that it is well. 
Now, be brave, Miss Pauline, be brave.” 

The awful thoughts which the familiar scene revived 
were overwhelming to our heroine. There upon that stoop 
against the stone wall she had reclined, when her heart 
w^as so full it seemed it must burst. Down those steps she 
had come, feeling that years, and perhaps a lifetime, would 
pass ere she would again behold the innocent little being 
she was forced to leave in the asylum. 

“ God give me strength !” she prayed. 

“ Amen !” answered the manager, who now fully realized 
what a fearful struggle she was enduring. “Be brave; 
take courage, and hope for the best. All will soon be 
over.” 

“Yes, for happiness or eternal woe. Heaven, indeed, 
aid me !” 

He supported her tottering steps up the stoop, and rang 
the bell. A servant came, and to their request to see the 
matron, showed them into the very apartment where Una 
Belmont had gone on that fearful morning when she 
parted from her baby. There was the same high desk, and 
she looked to see if the red-headed clerk was not behind it. 
But his place had been supplied by a young lady. 

All the faces about the establishment w^ere strange. It 
was nearly three years since she had been there before, and 
a thousand things may happen in three years. The fur- 
niture and room were the same, but not a single familiar 
face could she see. While Una was still trembling and 
speechless between alternating hope and fear, there came 
a quick step, and a tall, gaunt woman entered. 

Poor Una was unable to speak. It seemed to her that 
she must know the truth, and yet it would kill her if she 
did. Her friend, the manager, stood her in good need. He 
arose at once and asked : 

“ Is this the matron of this establishment?” 

“ I am, sir,” she answered, in a not unpleasant tone. ] 

“ Have you a nurse here named Henrietta Mortimer?” 

“No, sir; she was here, but left the establishment over 
a year ago; before I was matron.” 


LVUT TO THE WORLD, 101 

“ Have you a young man, with red hair, named Jim 
Wicket?” 

“ No; Mr. Wicket left directly after I came.” 

“ Ask at once about the child,” gasped Una, in a voice 
so hoarse with anxiety that it alarmed her companion. 
He stooped over and whispered “Courage” in her ear. 

“Tliis lady had a I'elative left here — a child — a little over 
two and a half years ago — in fact, it was almost three 
years ago. She does not know under what name the child 
was left, but is sure it was not its real name.” 

“Is the child dead — tell me that?” cried Una in her fine, 
tragical manner, which at once attracted the attention of 
the matron. “ Have you had any children die in the last 
three years?” 

“ There has been but one death from our asylum,” said 
the matron, proudly, “and that could not have been the 
child you seek. His name was Willie Gray, and his uncle 
came for him.” 

“ No, no, thank God! — then it is not dead.” 

“ You do not know the name under which the child was 
left?” asked the matron. 

“No, no, I do not remember it. I have heard it, and 
would know it if I heard it again.” 

“Well, then,” said the matron, her lips compressed 
firmly and her arms folded across her breast, “we can 
have the list read to you, and perhaps you will recognize 
it.” 

“ Oh, yes, do — do!” cried Una. 

“Lizzie, turn to the list from three years back, and read 
it.” 

The young lady clerk proceeded to read the list of names 
of children. They were all strange to her until the name 
of ‘ ‘ Lillie Day ” came out distinct and clear u^jon the mid- 
night cloud of her memory. 

“ That is she! Oh, that is the child! Do tell me where 
she is?” cried the actress. 

The young lady clerk was referred by the index to a cer- 
tain book and page, and therefrom read the record of Lillie 
Day: 

“ On this, the — day of , 18-—, was taken by Benja- 

min Thompson, wharfinger, and his wife, P«^y, to be 
reared and cared for as Iheir own ; the said Thompson 
having convinced the ofiicers of this establishment that 
both he and his said wife are humane Chi-istian people, and 
capable of caring for and suitably providing for the said 
child, Lillie Day.” 

Una’s breath came quick and short until the end of the 
record was reached. Then she said : 

“Where is Thompson? Let us go there at once,” 


103 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 


The manager was more cool and proceeded to put his 
interrogatories in reasonable shape, and was willing to 
wait until they had time to answer one question before 
putting another. 

No one in the establishment knew aught of Ben Thomp- 
son except one of the nurses, who said he had a wooden leg 
and talked like a sailor. 

“I can tell you who’ll tell you all about ’em,” said the 
nurse. 

“ Who— who? asked the actress, clutching her jeweled 
hands tightly together. 

“Jim Wicket. He’s somewhere in the city. You can 
p'r’aps find him from the directory.” 

That was a thought which had not entered the English- 
man’s mind. He at once admitted the wisdom of it, and 
taking the arm of his agitated companion, said : 

“ We have ascertained all we can here for the present. 
Let us now return to the hotel.” 

She suffered herself to be led to the coach, for she real- 
ized that was for the best. 

“ Now, Miss Vandell,” said the manager, when they 
were once more seated in the carriage, “ we have done all 
we can do to-day. Your child is, beyond a doubt, safe. 
We have a clew to work from, and all will yet be right; 
but you must play to-night, and cannot think of any more 
work to-day.” 

She realized the wisdom of what he said. Mr. Morgan 
himself attended to examining the directory and that even- 
ing, as he helped her into her carriage to go to the theater, 
he whispered that he had succeeded. 

The carriage whirled away to the theater, and stopped 
at the stage entrance. The actress sprung out. As she 
did so a man who was passing turned his face upon her. 

“ Una Belmont!” he cried. 

I She uttered a shriek and sprung back into Morgan's 
'arms. The man before her teas her M enemy, Hugh Gass. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

CATHARINE MONTOUR. 

“Who is he?” asked the manager, in a hoarse whisper, 
as he caught the actress in his arms. 

She made no response, but he felt her sinking and grow 
almost a dead weight in his arms. 

Hugh Gass was almost as much astonished, if not more 
so, than she. He advanced a step or two toward her, as if 
to realize what he thought must be a reality. He had seen 
her plunge into the water, Having supposed her dead fov 


LOST TO THE WOULD. 10;{ 

BO long, it was almost like seeing one returned from tlie 
dead. 

He had come across to her side before he hardly realized 
what he was about. 

“ Go away, you rascal!” said the manager, gruffly. 

“ Who is that lady?” asked the astounded Gass, as if he 
thought there might even yet be a possibility of his being 
mistaken. 

‘‘ None of your business— begone 1” 

“ Not until I know moi’e of her.” 

Una uttered a shriek and averted her face. 

Mr. Morgan, supporting her with his left arm, struck 
Gass a blow which stunned him. The villain was not a 
coward, and was about to make a fierce onset on the 
manager, when Morris and one or two more of the com- 
pany came up, and he was forced to take himself away. 

“Aha!” he cried, “but I know who you are now, and 
she can rest assured she will not have much peace 1 I’ve 
a hold on her — ha, ha, ha! — she'll find I have a hold on her 
yet !” 

Like one in a dream, the dazed, confused actress was 
conducted to the stage entrance. She went tlirough her 
part that evening somewhat mechanically. She hardly 
knew hoAV. When it was over, she went to her hotel in 
company with Miss Rice, Mr. Morgan and Mr. Morris. 

Though she was assured she would never be troubled 
again by Gass, his very presence in the city, and, above 
all, his awful threat, seemed like an icicle about her heart. 
Her very spirit seemed frozen. 

A week passed, and she seemed to grow better. Mr. 
Morgan had gone to the number where the directory said 
Jim Wicket lived, but that person had removed. His 
efforts to find him as yet had proven unavailing. He con- 
stantly whispered words of hope and cheer to poor Una, 
and together they secretly carried on the search, but with- 
out avail. The remainder of the company knew nothing 
of the dark secret which hovered like a shadow over the 
life of the star. She still continued to play her part with 
success. Somehow she seemed to throw her whole soul 
into the effort while on the stage, and as soon as the per- 
formance was over, she was exhausted and unable for 
hours to scarcely move. Morgan began to entertain seri- 
ous fears for her health. One of their actresses, becoming 
homesick, wanted to return to England, and Morgan ap- 
plied to Spies & Smart, New York managers, for some one 
to fill her place. 

One day a lady, whose talent was highly recommended, 
came to supply the place. She was a typical American, 
with just the least Western air and accent about her, but 


104 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 


a refined lady, withal. Mr. Morgan brought her to Una’s 
room and introduced her as Miss Catharine Montour. 

Una started up with a cry at the sound of the name. It 
was as if a dagger had pierced her heart. The manager 
gazed upon her for a moment in surprise. 

“ Leave us,” said the actress. “ Please leave us alone.” 

Mr. Morgan bowed and withdrew. For a momenc Una 
stood gazing into the handsome face of the western girl. 
There was nothing wicked in those clearly-lined features. 
It was evident from her brunette features that she was a 
descendant of those old pioneer French, who first pushed 
their way out on the frontier among the savages of the 
plains and wilderness. She was a perfect lady, and had 
as kind a heart in her bosom as ever beat in mortal breast. 

“Forgive me if I seem strange,” said Una, taking her 
hand and leading her to a sofa, “ but I must talk with you 
alone. There must be no one to hear what we may say, 
no one to witness our misery.” 

The western actress opened wide her large, black eyes, 
but could only stare in astonishment. Was the great En- 
glish actress really insane, she thought? But she said noth- 
ing. 

Una waited a few moments to recover her self-possession, 
and then, in a voice strangely feeble, went on : 

“Doubtless you think my conduct very strange, Miss 
Montour. I may prove to be mistaken, yet something 
within me seems to tell me I.am right. I never met you 
before, but I saw your name once — saw it when a dagger's 
gleam would have been a blessing compared to ic.” 

“Where— where?” Miss Montour asked, her cheek grow- 
ing pale with apprehension. 

“ On a mai'riage certificate .'” was the answer in a hoarse, 
agbnized whisper. 

Miss Montour uttered a scream and buried her face in 
her hands. Una, whose poor heart had been seared by 
sorrow, sat motionless and gazed on her in a sad, rebuking, 
yet forgiving manner. 

“ Can I never escape that?” cried Miss Montour. “ Can 
I never go so far but that awful shadow will follow me?” 

“Heaven pity you, poor girl!” said Una. “Do you 
know where he is?'’ 

“Dead!” 

Una started. She had never heard that Harry Clarendon 
was dead, but she knew in her loyalty to him she loved, 
that he must be dead. 

“ Did you know him?” Miss Montour asked, 

“I did.” 

“ It was all false. I never intended to deceive him, and 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 105 

he never intended to deceive me,” Miss Montour said, 
sadly. 

“ What do you mean?” Una asked, strangely, wildly. 

“I never loved him, and he never loved me. We did not 
intend to marry. He was at our house with a friend named 
Gass — a man who Avas false to him, and one who was a 
villain, I knoAv. We had no thought of marrying, but in- 
tended it as a play. We did not knoAv the man was a 
clergyman until it Avas done, and he had gone to the east. 
Then it seems that Gass had the marriage- certificate in his 
pocket. He waited until Harry Clarendon had married a 
young and beautiful girl, and then shoAved him the certifi- 
cate, making him believe he AA^as a bigamist. He had not 
dreamed before that he had a Avife, He came Avest to find 
me and get the marriage dissolved, by a competent court, 
if we were married. I had gone from Colorado further 
west, and he was on an overland route to find me Avhen the 
train was attacked, and he was killed Avith the others. ” 

“Then you Avere never really married to him?” 

“ No, AA^e Avere not. Gass himself was deceived. In seek- 
ing to Avork the mischief on his friend, that he might have 
a hold on him, he had procured a man he thought to be a 
minister, a disreputable character. He had been a minister 
of the Gospel, but Avas disrobed by a church court of his 
ministerial authority three days before our pretended mar- 
riage ceremony was performed, and as we had never recog- 
nized it as a marriage, it was not one. He had no more 
authority to solemnize marriage than any other man. I 
alw'ays liked Harry Clarendon as a brother, but never 
loved him as a Avife should.” 

Una sat like one petrified for a feiv moments, and then, 
in a voice husky with emotion, said; 

“ Then you were not his wife?” 

“ No, no, no!” 

“Oh, thank God, thank God!” she cried, Avringing her 
hands. “ He did not deceive me; he Avas true to me— ho 
Avas true.” 

It was Miss Montour’s time to sit still and stare in stupe- 
fied Avonder at the English actress. When the amazement, 
which seemed for a little while to sit upon her face, had 
faded aivay, she said : 

“ And did you knoAV him?” 

“I did.” 

“ Where?” 

“ In Massachusetts. 

“I Avas his real Avife. Oh, thank God! Poor, poor 
Harry, my darling, hoAv I have wronged you ! He did not 
intend to deceive me. He Avas true. 1 knew it. I ever 
felt it in my heart— but in the misery which has shrouded 


lOS 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 


my life, I have at times been tempted to condemn liim. 
Oh, I have been very, very wrong ! The villaixi has wrecked 
both our lives.” 

Catharine Montour took the hand of the acti^ess, and 
said : 

“ Your story must be a painful one; it must be full of 
heart-sufferings, yet so nearly has your life been connected 
with mine that I feel constrained to ask you to lay bare 
your heart’s secrets.” 

“ I will,” answered Una. “ I see you are astonished at 
what I have already revealed, and that you must know all. 
You have a right to know all. I was married to Harry 
Clarendon nearly five years ago, while at school, I dis- 
covered soon after our marriage that some trouble was on 
his mind. Our marriage was secret, and no one save Hugh 
Gass and the officiating minister was present. Harry took 
me from the boarding-school to a small New England vil- 
lage, where we lived incognito, and kept our marriage a 
secret to all save ourselves. I tried to get him to tell me 
what it was that was on his mind, but he never revealed 
to me what it was. I don’t suppose he had the heart to 
break the awful news. At last he left me to go on that 
awful errand which proved so fatal to him. Oh, 
Harry, Harry! Heaven rest your soul, I have wronged 
you! I was persecuted by Gass, who informed me 
I had been deceived, and he showed me the cer- 
tificate of marriage with you. His persecutions were 
so great that I fled to Boston, where my child was born — 
my little Isola~in a humble workman’s home. I went to 
my father that winter, carrying my baby in my arms, but 
I was turned away into the street and snow-storm to die. 
I met Gass that night, and he, professing his love for me, 
tried to induce me to accept favors from him. I fled, and 
sank down in a swoon, but was conveyed to a police-sta- 
tion, where I remained until morning in a state of uncon- 
sciousness. Being weak and ill, I was taken to a hospital, 
and cared for until well enough to be discharged. I could 
get no employment with my babe, and put it in an orphan 
asylum. Then I set out to find employment in the city of 
my nativity. Though I traveled from street to street, it 
was of no avail. I was turned away at every place, and 
regarded with suspicion by some. Despair had seized me, 
and I had almost resolved ©n seeking safety in the river, 
when I met Gass. He was more bitter in his persecutions 
than ever before, which confirmed my determination. I 
ran ; he pursued ine. The dock was in sight. It was now 
almost dark. I reached it and spi’ung in. I remembered 
no more until I awoke on a ship bound for Livei-pool. It 
seems I had fallen on a hen-coop, and, only partially sub- 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 


107 


merged, had floated out to sea. until I was picked up by a 
passing vessel. Mr. Moi'gan was on the vessel, and I got 
acquainted with him. He brought me out as an actress, 
and I have made a success. I returned here to And my 
child, but have failed so far. It was taken from the 
asylum, Gass is here, and if he knows where my cliild is 
he will abduct it, for the villain for some reason is deter-, 
mined to keep some hold upon me.” 

The actresses became sisters in an hour. Poor Una had 
met a heart at last which could fully respond to her own, 
Una only required her child now, to be happy. It was not 
a child of shame, and Harry Clarendon was her lawful 
husband — a fact she had always doubted before. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

THE lunatic’s ESCAPE, 

The strange, wild being whom we introduced in Chapter 
XIX. as Wandering Mind arose one morning from his wig- 
wam, which had been set apart for him, and began to walk 
about, far more mysteriously than he ever had before. 
His mind did not seem to wander, even if his feet did. In 
fact, it appeared to stand still. 

He was on a slight elevation, when suddenly the earth 
seemed to tremble and crack beneath him. The Indians 
started up from their reclining positions on the ground, or 
in their v/igwams, and uttered most appalling cries. A 
report like a burst of thunder sounded from the mountain, 
accompanied by that rumbling sound which, when once 
heard, is never forgotten. The ground seemed to quake, 
and great bowlders of stone started from their sockets far 
up the mountain-side and started rolling down, leaving 
long trails of fire. 

The Indians gathered round the poor lunatic, and their 
cries and the horror of the situation seemed to work awon- 
;derful change in him. He spoke in a calm voice, and bade 
them be still. 

A third shock came, more powerful than either of the 
other two. All were thrown on their faces, and the very 
mountains themselves seemed to be rolling down upon 
them. 

A few were crushed and mangled by the stones, but the 
remainder arose. It was gone. Wandering Mind now as- 
sured them in a voice strange, even to them. 

For days afterward he sat in a curious stupor. His 
mind was gradually awakening. The earthquake shock 
had worked wonders upon him, beyond the powers of 
these savages to comprehend. His mind grew clearer, and 
the past came back to him as if he had but awakened 


10:5 


LOST TO THE WORLD, 


from a troubled sleep. His last recollections were of a 
contest of life and death. Of sulphurous smoke, cracking 
rifles, and whistling shots and arrows. He saw the furious 
faces of painted demons, and heard the dying groans of 
his companions. Then he remembered a crashing blow 
from the butt of a gun or war club, and a long silence had 
followed. A sleep of years, during which time he had 
been among the savages. 

The Indians were too much alarmed at the earthquake 
for several days to bury their dead, but finally recovering 
from their state of lethargy, they held their powwow, at 
which Wandering Mind was called on to ofiiciate in his 
mild manner. 

If the prisoner— for he really was nothing more— had 
begun to recover his reason, he was too shrewd to let the 
Indians know it. He had a plan to execute, one which 
would not only require all his cunning, but his courage as 
well. 

For days and weeks after the earthquake, when the 
Indians had almost forgotten it, he wandered up the 
mountain-side as if to examine it and see if it was solid, or 
whether it was liable to be shaken up again. The red men 
did not seem to have any fears of his attempting to escape. 
Wandering Mind had been with them so long that they did 
not think he would dare go away. 

He had never had any idea of escape save toward the 
east, and a great river ran there. The lunatic had never 
entertained an idea of trying to get away toward J,he west. 
His whole mind was intent on going eastward. He had 
such a hoi’ror of water that he would, under no circum- 
stances, attempt to cross the rapidly- flowing river, and the 
Indians had even given up watching. 

These wanderings up the mountain-side were noticed by 
Strong Deer, and one day that sagacious warrior followed 
behind him. Wandering Mind evidently did not see the 
savage until he was far up the mountain. Turning about 
with his simple, sad smile on his face. Wandering Mind 
said in the Apache language: 

“ Does Strong Deer come to make the discovery too?” 

“ Why does Wandering Mind come up the mountain?” 

“ I want to find the hole whei'e it came out. I want to 
stop it up so it cannot come out any more.” 

“ What hole does Wandering Mind look for?” asked the 
Indian. 

“The hole where the fire came out,” answered the 
Wandering Mind. 

Strong Deer sat down upon the ground as an Indian al- 
ways does; Wandering Mind took a seat on a huge rock. 


LOST TO THE WOULD. l03 

“Why does Wandering Mind go away from the camp 
over the mountain?” the Indian asked. 

The prisoner sat for a few moments with his head bowed 
as if in deep thought. The question had to be repeated 
before he answered. Then he said : 

“ The fire comes out of the mountain. The rocks burst 
loose and go rolling down upon my children and brothers 
— the red men. I would go up the mountain- side and plug 
it up so no more fire can get out. 

The savage shook his head gravely. 

“Wandering Mind must not go up the mountain,” he 
said, sagely. 

“ Why?” 

The Indian sat in stolid silence, not deigning a word in. 
reply. The stubbornness and silence of the Ameriean 
Indian is phenomenal. When he chooses to speak he will, 
and when he chooses to be sullen and silent no word can 
be got out of him. 

■Wandering Mind picked up a small stone, a mere sliver, 
perhaps torn from some great bowlder in its downward 
flight, and held it in his hand; while he was keenly 
watching the expression on the savage’s face, he pretended 
to be engaged in other business. 

The truth was apparent to the prisoner. As cautious as 
he had been to conceal it, the Indian began to have some 
suspicions of his strange awakening, 

What if be did sport in the sunshine, and chatter, or 
stroll about like an insane man, there was something in 
his very manner which began to indicate a dawn of rea- 
son. AVhile they have the highest regard for a white man 
insane, they regard the rational white man as an enemy. 

The stolid savage sat there like a wall to bar the prison- 
er’s freedom. 

Moments passed, and the prisoner continued to throw 
stones and pebbles down the mountain-side with child-like 
simplicity. At length Strong Deer spoke. 

“Does Wandering Mind wish to go now?” 

“ Go where?” he asked. 

The Indian shook his head. The white prisoner could 
not play the part of the insane as he had acted it in reality. 
Many things which he remembered then had entirely 
slipped his memory. 

“Does the Wandering Mind wish to go there?” he asked, 
pointing toward the east, across the village and valley be- 
low. 

For a moment the prisoner seemed to be puzzled. Ho 
was trying, beyond a doubt, to recall some forgotten event. 
After a moment he said : 

“Yes, yes; she calls from over the rivei’, but I cannot 


no 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 


cross over to her. It is there— it is there, and will not run 
out. Oh, I wish I could go over to her, but I cannot— no, 

I cannot.” 

The Indian gave a grunt of satisfaction, and as the sun 
had descended behind the mountains, they went down to 
the village. 

That sullen silence prevailed in the village which is uni- 
versal in all Indian hamlets. It was a somber silence. 
The light from the camp-fires flickered, flared, and wav- 
ered, making many ghost-like gleams on the rocks and 
dusky faces of the savages. 

The prisoner seemed the same as usual, and the night 
passed. The next day, when he started up the mountain- 
side again, Strong Deer asked him where he was going. 

“ I am going up to quench the fire king,” said the pris- 
oner. “He shall not descend any more to crush my red 
brethren to death. Will not Strong Deer come along with 
me?” 

The Indian seemed satisfied. Doubtless Wandering 
Mind’s hallucination had taken a new and strange turn. 
The Indian is generally lazy, and Strong Deer was no ex- 
ception to the rule. 

Satisfied that Wandering Mind would make no effort to 
escape, he preferred to remain behind and bask in the warm 
sunlight at the side of his wigwam. 

Wandering Mind went alone. He seemed more like a 
child on an aimless sti’oll than one set about some regular 
business. He went up this path a moment and then that, 
pausing here and there to pluck a wild flower, or watch 
some gaudy-winged butterfly flitting about. Then he 
climbed higher, until he was among the bleak barren rocks 
of the mountain-side. 

From crag to crag he ascended, stopping at every few 
rods to peer into some crevice or hole in the rocks where 
tho fire king might be lurking. In this manner he pro- 
ceeded on and on, until he was at the top of the mountain. 

It was yet in the forenoon, and the prisoner paused and 
looked back upon the village. Only a moment he stood 
there, then hastened away to some rocks, where lay a rifle, 
ammunition, a revolver, and a knife. There was nothing 
insane about him as he armed himself, and looking about, 
ci*ieda 

t “ Now for freedom, once more!” 

Without another word he hastened down on the opposite 
side of the mountain from the Indian village, fleeing from 
a living death. 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 


Ill 


CHAPTER XXV. 

THE abductor's FLIGHT. 

Affairs went on with the company the same as usual. 
Perhaps not more than half a dozen in Morgan’s Combina- 
tion suspected that anything unusual was going on, and 
that half dozen had no idea Avhat the real secret was. 

The search for the child and Jim Wicket continued. Mr. 
Morgan at last thought of employing a detective, who was, 
of course, let into the whole secret. He was a shrewd 
man, and capable of seeing as far into a mill-stone as any 
man living. 

A few days after the event in our last chapter, Mr. Mor- 
gan came to Una’s room, and said : 

“ He is found at last; the detective has found him.” 

“Who?” she asked, clasping her hands in silent agony 
of hope. 

“Jim Wicket.” 

“ Where is he?” 

“ In the upper part of the city. The detective has his 
number.” 

“ Well, does he know anything of my child?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Oh, Avhat is it, Mr. Morgan? Do tell me!” 

“The man Wicket, who is now a clerk in a grocery 
store, says that the child was taken away by the old sailor 
and his wife, and a few months later a man came to tlie 
asylum claiming to be the baby’s uncle. He described the 
man, and the detective is sure he is no other than Hugh 
Gass. ” 

“Gass! Great Heaven! has he my child?” she cried, 
starting to her feet. 

“Be calm, MissVandell. Do not be excited. We act- 
ually know nothing.” 

“ But my baby— my poor little Isola?” she began. 

“ Hear me through,” said the mannger, trying to induce 
her to be quiet. “The detective learned that the old 
people and the child had disappeai-ed rather mysteriously, 
nearly two years ago.” 

“ And Gass?” 

“You saw him the other night.” 

“ But he is at the bottom of my child’s disappearance, I 
am sure,” she sobbed. 

Tlie manager felt that it was too true. Gass was evi- 
dently in some way connected Avith the mysterious affair. 
He tried to be hopeful, and in a voice which he intended 
to be calm, he said : 

“Do not put on the worst phase. Miss Vandell. We 
will hope not. We may yet find the child.” 


m 


LOST TO THE WORLD, 


“ Is the detective still at work?” 

“He is.” 

“Tell him to spare no time nor pains; whatever his 
charges ai’e, they shall be paid to the utmost penny. He 
must Avork day and night, until he has found it.” 

“ He Avill; and if help is needed he shall liave it.” 

' The detective was, beyond a doubt, putting forth all his 
energies. He was laboring with might and main to get 
some clew of the missing child. But even the most inex- 
perienced must know how difficult it is to get on to a cold 
trail two years old. If Gass had aught to do with it, the 
scoundrel had, beyond a doubt, used every effort to cover 
up his tracks. The detective advised Miss Vandell by all 
means to continue on the stage. He thought the child 
AA^as not in Noav York, and most likely it aa'os in some 
Western city. Wherever he suspected the child to be, the 
company could go to the tOAvn and play there Avhile the 
search continued, unless he thought it best that Mrs. 
Clarendon should not be near. 

The detective Avas shadoAving Gass. He knew that that 
villain knew something of the child. He had an abiding 
faith in the honesty of the sailor; for he had sounded his 
character. Old Ben Avas a tool of Gass in some way, he 
did not knoAV exactly Iioav. 

Una met her father and learned of his ruin and disgrace. 
Her step-mother, after Mr. Belmont’s doAvnfall, had eloped 
with the very man AAdio had caused her husband’s ruin, 
leaving only the children and a heavily-mortgaged house 
to poor Mr. Belmont. She could not but forgive him in 
her distress. She told him her oavu sad story, and he wept 
like a heart-broken child. She gave him money sufficient 
for his immediate Avants, and told him Avhen her child was 
discovered she Avould do better. Poor Mr. Belmont Avould 
have been glad to have aided her, if he could have done so, 
in the search after the missing child. 

One day the actress received a letter post-marked Brook- 
lyn. It Avas as follows : 

“Miss Belmont,— Y our search for your child can only 
prove successful bA”^ my aid. You know Avhat my Avishes 
are. Unless they are complied Avith, you shall never see 
your child again. You can have it Avith me, and not with- 
out. I know Avhere it is. If you consent to this, put the 

following in the personal column of the New York : 

‘Mr. G — ’s proposition Avill be accepted. U.’ — and I will 
then make arrangements Avhich will be satisfactory to 
both.” 

Una’s first impulse was to tear_the letter into fragments 


LOST TO THE WOLLD. 


113 


and throw it upon the floor, but in a moment she thought 
better of it, and sent the missive to her detective. 

For some reason Mr. Moi’gan now decided to leave New 
York and go with his company to Chicago. It was a great 
surprise to the company, who expected either to go to 
Boston or Philadelphia, but the manager seemed to know 
what he was doing. 

Tlie newspapers were full of notices of the departure for 
Chicago, and the Western tour of the great English 
actress. 

The detective was carefully watching Gass, who at Ihe 
news, seemed to become greatly excited. He soon ascer- 
tained that the villain was going to leave the city. He 
shadowed him to the depot, and there learned tliat he had 
bought a ticket for Chicago. 

After a short interview with Miss Vandell, as the actress 
was still called, he began to make preparations for follow- 
ing the villain. Gass was really more alarmed than he 
seemed. 

His hand trembled as he took the ticket from the agent 
and hurried out into the car. He seated himself in one 
corner, glad to be out of the way of any prying eye. The 
train did not seem to go fast enough. Oh, how he wanted 
to fly over the earth ! 

For hours the train rumbled and roared on its course, 
across mountain, hill and dale, prairie, plain and stream, 
leaving one long line of bla(*-k smoke in its rear. One 
morning at daylight the city of Chicago was in sight. The 
glittering spires and smoke of manufactories formed a 
brilliant sight. On their right lay the lake like a great 
ball of glass, on which could be seen, here and there, a 
snowy sail, the whole resembling some delightful picture. 

But Gass had no time or inclination for beauty of 
scenery. He sprung from the train, and hurried like one 
who feared he was pursued to a hotel. He knew that a 
New York detective had been set upon him, and he furtiier 
knew that, before this time, Pinkerton had been informed 
of his visit to Chicago, and the shrewdest detectives on the 
force would be set to watch him. He considered himself 
shrewd enough to avoid them. Going to the Palmer 
House, he took a room under an assumed name. He waited 
there until night, when he disguised himself and slipped 
out of the hotel, leaving his baggage to pay his bill. 

Disguised, he made his way to the tenement-house where 
lived the old sailor, near enough to the lake, where he 
might hear the dash of water. It was yet too early for 
even these old people to retire. In fact, old Ben was out 
in a yacht on the lake ; Peggy and the child Lillie were in 
the room. 


114 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 


“Why, lawks, Mr. Gass!” said the old woman, when 
she discovered who her visitor was. “What ye cornin’ 
here that way fur? Why ye got all them funny black 
whiskers on?” 

“ Hush, Peggy,” said Gass, in a mysterious whisper. 
“Do you know we are all in danger?” and he fixed his 
eyes on the little five-year-old girl who stood looking on in 
■wonder, holding to her foster-mother’s dress. 

“Why, la! no, Mr. Gass; what d’ye mean ?” 

‘ ‘They are after her !” he whispered mysteriously, point- 
ing to Lillie, who, young as she was, comprehended that 
some terrible calamity threatened her. 

“ Oh, you don’t reckin they ar', do ye, Mr. Gass?” said 
the old woman. 

“I know it; I came on hei’e to warn you. She will be 
dragged away forever if something is not done. Where is 
Ben?” 

“ On the lake,” answered the distracted woman, wring- 
ing her hands. 

“Oh, the deuce!” cried the villain, in apparent rage, 
though there was a fiendish gleam in his eyes. It was un- 
doubtedly just as he would have wished it. “ That is too 
bad. Here, take this,” he added, giving her a five-dollar 
bill; “go quickly down to the dock and hire some one to 
go after him. Go-go at once. I would be recognized in 
spite of this disguise.” 

The kind old woman, terrified almost to death, at once 
donned her old-fashioned hat and shawl. 

“Oh, mamma, mamma! do not leave me with him,” 
cried the child, intuitively comprehending its danger. 

“ Stay, darling Lillie; I’ll be back in a minit.” 

“ But take Lillie along?” 

“No,” cried Gass ; “ she will be snatched away from you 
on the street. It’s dark now. Stay with me, child— stay 
with me, or you will be carried off.” 

Terror at being carried off held poor Lillie dumb. Mrs. 
Thompson hurried out into the darkness. 

“ Now, don’t you chirp,” said Gass to the child. “ They 
are all round us, and they’ll just snap you up and carry 
you off if you so much as scream.” 

He went to the door, and listened and looked until Peggy 
was out of sight and hearing. Then he suddenly re-en- 
tered the house, and seized the little cloak and hood of the 
child. 

“ What do?” the little questioner asked. 

“Hush! Not a word! They are coming— they are al- 
most here to carry you off.” 

He put on the hood and cloak and took her up in his 
arms. 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 


115 


If “ Where are you doin’?” 

“We are going to find your papa and mamma, Ben 
Thompson and Peggy. You must not cry, or they will get 
you.” 

He carried her down the street in an opposite direction 
from that taken by Peggy. 

He hurried along in the darkness until he came to a 
hackman. For ten dollars he hired him to drive him out 
in the country. To the child’s query as to where they 
“ were doin’?” he answered to meet Ben and Peggy. 

He went to a country station on the Chicago and Alton 
road and bought a ticket for Kansas City. 

Little Lillie began to cry, but to his threat to give her up 
to those awful beings who were in pursuit of her, she 
became quiet. They boarded the train and it thundered 
on. 

The abductor sat smiling at his own cleverness, and the 
child of Una Clarendon lay on the seat in front of him 
asleep. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

A RECOGNITION. 

Sitting behind a desk in a retail dry goods establish- 
ment, was a man who was evidently somewhere between 
twenty -five and thirty years of age. He might be more, 
but certainly not less. His features were rather bronzed 
for one regularly engaged in book-keeping. There was 
something striking about that face. It was not handsome, 
nor was it ugly. On the left side of the high forehead, and 
running back until it was lost to view under the dark brown 
hair, was a long, red scar. There was nothing sensual or 
evil in that face. He looked honest, and |yet there was 
something about him not easily fathomed. He wrote a 
“good hand,” was correct in his calculations, and had 
never, during the two weeks he had be(m in the employ cf 
Brown, Russell & Co., made a single mistake. 

There was quite a contrast between this sedate, quiet 
man, and the giddy, smart young men in the same employ. 
He seldom smiled, and was frequently heard to sigh. His 
clothes were very cheap but neat, and — we will tell you a 
Becret— tcere not paid for yet. 

" Brown, Russell & Co. was not one of the largest retail 
dry goods firms in San Francisco, but was a large firm, 
and was doing an excellent business. Their place of busi- 
ness was not in the most fashionable part of the city, and 
consequently they were not patronized by the more fash- 
ionable people of the great Western metropolis. 

Two young clerks stood apart from their desks convei-s- 


116 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 


ing in a low tone. It was late in the day. In fact, more 
fashionable establishments had closed, and it was only 
those who wished fo catch what is called the laborers’ 
trade that kept open. The two idle clerks were therefore 
permitted to chat and gossip without the interruption of 
some cash-boy with amounts to transfer to some day-book. 

“How long has he been here, Enoch?” one of the clerks 
asked of the other. 

“ About two weeks,” was the answer. ! 

“ There’s somethin’ strange about him.” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Where’s he from?” 

“ I don’t know, but I’ve heard he came from the mount- 
ains.” 

“ He’s been a miner and failed.” 

“ No, I think not.” 

“Why?” 

“ Because, browned and sunburnt as he is, his hands are 
not hard enough for a miner.” 

“ He seems to suit the firm.” 

After a few moments’ silence, Enoch said: 

“ And I don't see why he should, Bob. I never in all my 
life saw a more awkward fellow with books. He abso- 
lutely, sometimes, don’t know how to balance accounts 
until he has studied over it a long time.” 

“ Yes; he seems to get puzzled at times,” Bob answered, 
“ but be brings it out right in the end. He seems to be a 
man who once had a thorough knowledge of the business, 
but has forgotten it.” 

“ He looks as if he had forgotten to live for awhile, and, 
like Eip Van Winkle, waked up from a twenty years’ 
sleep.” 

“ There are some rumors about him.” 

“ What are they?” 

“ Oh, I don’t know whether there is any truth in them 
or not, and perhaps it is better not to repeat even as rumor 
what may be false.” 

“It can do no harm; and besides, you have got my 
curiosity so aroused that 1 am anxious to know all about 
it.” 

“Well, it is rumored that about three weeks ago a wild, 
haggard man, dressed in a singularly wild costume, and 
whose features were bronzed almost to an Indian’s, came 
to the city. He was not only dressed as an Indian, but so 
ragged as to present scarcely a decent appearance. He had 
not spoken the English language for so long that he could 
scarcely speak it at first. They say that Mr. Bussell, who, 
you know, is a sort of philanthropist, found him at a house 


LOST TO THE WOULD. 


nr 


and provided him with the suit he wears, and agreed to 
give him employment until they could be paid for.” 

“That is not an improbable story,” said his companion. 
“ But where had he been? He is not a miner.” 

“No; he was no miner. He said he was a captive for 
many years among the Indians.” 

“ How many years?” 

“ He don’t know.” 

“ Don’t know?” 

“ No ; he said he had no idea how long he had been there, 
and was very particular to ask what year this was, and 
month, and where he was.’' 

“Why, didn’t he really know where he was?” 

“No.” 

“ Then he certainly took a Rip Van Winkle sleep.” 

“ His faculties may have lain dormant. No one knows. 
One of the theories is that he was crazy among the Indians, 
and by some means recovered his reason.” 

“It may only be a lucid interval,” put in one of the 
clerks, with a laugh. 

“ No ; he is perfectly rational now, I don’t cai’e what may 
have been his previous condition. His reasoning faculties 
seem perfectly clear.” 

“ I don't know. At times he appears a little muddled.” 

■ “No more than you or I would be under like circum- 
stances. Think! If we w^ere five years or more in a 
wilderness how much we would forget. It would take 
time to bring it back to us.” 

“Yes, to be sure.” 

“Well, I think he is remarkably apt, considering his dis- 
i advantages. He promised to soon be the best book-keeper 
[ we have ever had,” said the clerk, in that possessive-case 
• manner which clerks and all employes delight to use. 

\ They now fixed their eyes on the strange book-keeper, 

I and watched him for a few moments with peculiar in- 
terest. 

The book- keeper had leaned his head on his hand, and in 
his sad and pensive way was gazing out of the little back 
window of the store. His eye seemed to grow humid in 
i its sadness. Before him was a small example in subtrac- 
[ tion. The minuend was the present year, month, and day ; 

I the subtrahend was a former year, month, and day, the re- 
, mainder of the subtraction being six years, four months, 
and nineteen days. 

“So long!” he murmured. “Ah, what— what has be- 
come of her? So long! so long!” 

; A terrible horror seemed to seize his soul. It was the 
waking up to some fearful recollection. The knowledge 

■ that something in the *dim past had been forgotten or ne- 


1]8 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 


elected. He would start up nervously and pace the floor 
for a few moments, as if he were anxious to be going; 
then, realizing how helpless his captivity was, he would 
return to his desk and resume his writing. 

Poverty was the chain which held him at the desk, a 
chain equally as strong as the river was to keep the poor 
lunatic in the Indian village. As there he waited for the 
river to run by before he went over, here he waited for the 
stream of poverty to pass. If his employer knew his sad 
story, he was the only one. All the rest was conjecture. 

“There is a rumor,” said Bob Barley, “that he com- 
mitted some heinous crime back in the States for which he 
fled to the Indians, and has since sought protection among 
them.” 

“ He don’t look like a desperate man,” said Enoch. 

“Oh, no, he don’t look desperate; but sometimes the 
most innocent-looking men are really the most desperate. 
There is no telling wh^at a man is by his looks,” said Bob. 

“He is no rogue.” 

“Oh, no; no doubt as to his honesty,” said Bob; “but 
you know sometimes our best men fly into a passion, and 
commit some terrible crime. He may have done so and 
fled here for protection.” 

“ If he is a fugitive,” said Enoch, “ I shall not give him 
over to the authorities. I think if even a rabbit ran to me 
for protection from the hounds I would not hand it over to 
the blood-thirsty dogs which were chasing it.” 

“Neither would I.” 

At this moment the two clerks were startled into some- 
thing like business activity by the entrance of a man, who 
walked straight up to where some children’s clothes hung. 
The clerks in this establishment had to act as salesmen, too, 
and Bob hastened toward him with a professional smile, 
and a — 

“ Well, sir, what can I do for you this evening?” 

“ I want to get a child’s dress,” said the stranger. 

“ For what age child, please?” asked Bob, rubbing his 
hands something after the Israelite manner. He now no- 
ticed that the keen gray eye and smiling face of the stran- 
ger was attracting the attention of the mysterious book- 
keeper, and though it was not common for him to be 
startled at anything, the clerk paid no attention to him, 
having his eye on his customer. 

“I want a dress for a little girl about five years old,” 
the man answered. 

A dress was selected, and the stranger was examining it 
carefully. While Bob was watching him closely, and 
coming to the conclusion that he was no San Franciscan, 
he heard a noise in the rear. 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 119 

The book-keeper had sprung from his stool, and, rush- 
ing past Bob, seized the stranger by the hand. 

“Gass — Gass — Hugh Gass, in God’s name tell me it is 
you !” the strange book-keeper cried. 

The customer turned his bewildered eyes a moment on 
the book-keeper, and said: 

^'■Heavens! has the grave given up its dead. Harry Claren- 
donf" 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

A PERFORMANCE INTERRUPTED. 

The company were astounded when their manager an- 
nounced his determination to ignore Boston, Philadelphia, 
Buffalo, Washington and all the smaller cities of the East, 
and go to Chicago, but they were doubly astonished, when 
they had only been a week in the latter city, to hear him 
announce his derermination to set out again for San Fran- 
cisco. 

None save two knew what Morgan’s object was. Those 
two, of course, were Miss Vandell and Miss Catharine 
Montour. 

“Morgan,” said his friend Morris, when the manager 
had announced his determination of quitting Chicago for 
the city of the Golden Gates, “are you crazy?” 

“I think not, Morris; why do you ask me such an ab- 
surd question?” 

“ Why, your actions certainly justify me in doing so.” 

“Well, have a commission of lunacy appointed if you 
want to,” said Morgan, with a smile. “I shall have no 
objection.” 

“We were having crowded houses in New York, when 
you, all of a sudden, pulled up, and instead of taking a 
nearer place, came away hei’e to Chicago ; well, now we 
have hardly commenced here, and we’re coining money, 
when you pull up and jump clear across the continent. I 
say your conduct is inexplicable; I don’t understand it.” 

Morgan looked his friend in the face for a few moments, 
and then, with a light laugh, said : 

“ No, Morris, you do not understand my conduct. I am 
■willing to admit I do not really intend that you shall at 
present. You have an abiding faith in me, have you 
not?” 

“ In your honesty and goodness of heart— yes; in your 
judgment — no,” answered Morris. 

Again Morgan laughed his gentle, good-natured laugh, 
as he said : 

“ Just like you, old fellow. No man Avas more outspoken 
than you ; but believe me, now, when I say this is no wild. 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 


la) 

cat scheme— these flights across the continent. They were 
all planned before leaving England.” 

“Well,” said Moi’ris, dryly, “if they were it does not 
increase my good opinion of the judgment of the man, 
men, or women who made the plan.” 

“You think me more wild and speculative, my friend, 
than I really am. Believe me, Morris,” he whispered, 

“ there is a secret in this I dare not impart. Could I give 
you the key to the mystery, you would se6 through all in 
a moment; but I am under a promise to keep everything a 
secret. It is not my judgment alone in this matter ; it is a 
fate which impels me to act.” 

Morris was silent. He began now to feel the awful effect 
of some secret impelling force himself, though he knew not 
what it was. 

The real cause of their sudden move away to San Fran- 
cisco was the fact that the detective had come on from 
New York to Chicago. On the third day he found old Ben 
Thompson and his good wife, Peggy, who were almost 
frantic at the strange disappearance of their little adopted 
daughter. She had been abducted, but by whom they did 
not know. It was a long time before they would trust the 
detective with their story; but when he gave them un- 
questionable proof that he was working for the child, that 
its mother was alive, and that Gass was little Lillie’s worst 
enemy, they consented at once to I'eveal all, and told him 
the whole story. 

The detective then found the hackman who had driven 
Gass to the country station, where he had purchased a 
ticket for Kansas City. 

From here he was traced to Omaha, where he had pro- 
cured an emigrant ticket through to San Francisco. 

“ The villain,” said the detective to himself, “ is both a 
knave and a fool. Don’t he know that he can be tracked 
with a child so remarkable as Isola Clarendon?” 

It was the detective’s plan to go on alone, but as he had ' 
promised Miss Vandell to return and report as soon as he 
had the villain spotted, he hastened back to Chicago to do 
so. Miss Vandell, alias Una Clarendon, vowed she would 
go herself to San Francisco. 

It was vain to urge her the uselessness of such a jour- 
ney. Her child was there, and fame, wealth, even friend- 
ship and gratitude were cast aside for it. She had been 
delayed so long in finding it, that she now determined to 
lose no more time. 

As Mr. Morgan saw that it was useless to attempt to pre- 
vent her, he telegraphed to a manager at San Francisco 
and had a theater hired, and the company was announced 
by great flaming posters. The wealthy city was all on the 


LOST TO THE WOELD. 


121 


qiii vive to see the great English actress about whom they 
had heard so much. 

Miss Van dell, sitting in her drawing-i'oom car, flying 
across the plain at the rate of speed of a bird, had little 
thought of the honors which awaited her. What was 
fame to her mother’s heart? Would riches be any induce- 
ment to her? No, no; yet her anxiety to be in the great 
metropolis of the Pacific was so great, that the train 
seemed to creep on at a snail’s pace. 

For hours at a time she would sit by the window of her 
car gazing out upon the plain, the sand dunes, sage brush, 
and broken hills in the distance. One would have thought 
her an admirer of scenery, but her eyes -were expression- 
less in their gaze. She only saw a little fair-faced child 
holding up its small hands and pleading: 

“ Mother — mother !” 

Oh, who can help wondering her mother’s heart did not 
break? What a struggle she had again and again to keep 
back the tears which ever welled up in her eyes ! 

Her friends around her seemed aware that she was dis- 
tressed, for, as the chase grew warmer, her mi.sery became 
palpable; yet their respect for her was too great'for them 
to inquire into the cause. 

When they arrived in San Francisco she was almost 
overcome with nervous prostration. Leaving the train, 
they took carriage for their hotel. 

“ Do you think you will be able to go on the stage to- 
morrow night?” asked Mr. Morgan, when she was in her 
room. 

“Yes,” was the sad answer; “but, Mr. Morgan, are we 
not doing wrong in trying to perform when my child^ — oh, 
my little darling! — is" in the hands of this wolf, the claws 
of this awful Imman tiger.” 

Mr. Morgan was silent a moment, and then he said : 

“ Our detective soys not. He says it would have been 
better to have stayed away, but as Ave have come that we 
should proceed, as if our sole business was to act.” 

“Well, we will; but it is hard— oh, it is very hard! 
Forgive me, Mr. Morgan, if I seem ungrateful to you, who 
have been so kind to me. For so many years I have been 
punished by persecutions and separations, and hope de- 
ferred, until my heart is sick. I Avill do what is best, but 
tliis suspense— God in heaven help me to endure it. I feel 
I cannot stand it much longer.” 

The next night she was in the green-room awaiting the 
ringing up of the curtain before going on the stage. The 
manager and Mr. Morris noted how pale her cheeks wei e, 
and commented on her ability to go through with the per- 
formance. 


122 


LOST TO THE WOLLD. 


“ Morgan,” said Morris, taking the manager’s coat-button, 
and drawing him a little aside, “there is some mystery 
about that woman.” 

“ To you there is, to me there is not,” Morgan answered, 
in his strange, characteristic manner. 

“ Then you understand all?” 

“ I do.” I 

“ Are you at liberty to reveal it?” j 

“No.” 

“ One thing you can tell me, perhaps. I suspect it, but I 
am not positive as to my views being correct ” 

“What do you suspect?” the manager asked. 

“ I suspect that our coming out here has something to do 
with the mystery about that woman.” 

“ I am at liberty to reveal nothing,” said the manager, 
“but I will say that your guess is not a bad one.” He 
turned about and walked away. Then he came back, and 
in a whisper to the actor, added: “1 have told you noth- 
ing; you know nothing — say nothing, not even what you 
suspect. Eumor that is part a lie and part a truth spreads 
like wild fire, and is equally as destructive. You are 
my friend, Morris, and you have always been prudent; be 
so now.” 

They had no time for further discussion. The bell rang 
up the curtain, and Morris had to take his place. The play 
went on with its usual success. 

A man sitting in the parquet, dressed in a plain business 
suit, seemed to be watching it with careless interest. At 
the play he was like he was at his desk, mechanical. 
Since his meeting with Gass he supposed the being he 
loved dearest dead, and there being no attractions for him 
across that river he had so long feared, he seemed finally 
reconciled to live in San Francisco. The strange book- 
keeper’s gentle manner and kind heart had won the friend- 
ship of all. His sad story was known only to the little 
circle of employes of Brown, Eussell & Co. The clerks, 
Enoch Savage and Bob Darley, hoped to cheer him up a 
little by bringing him to hear the celebrated English 
actress. 

They bought his ticket, and he to please them went. 

During the overture the sad man sat almost motionless. 
When the curtain rolled up, he paused a little, but after 
the play had begun relapsed into his half-lethargic state. 
He took no notice of the splendid acting of Mr. Morris or 
the humor of the comedians, but sat for the most of the 
time staring into vacancy. Alas for Bob and Enoch’s 
evening of pleasure ! Why did you bring that living corpse 
with you? Why should he who belonged and lived only 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 123 

in the dead past be dragged into a house of amusement, to 
chill all with whom he came in contact? 

But wait — there is an awakening. The great English 
actress herself comes on the stage. A thunder of applause 
and a shower of bouquets greet her appearance. Then 
when the tumult is over she begins to speak. The full 
rich music of her voice thrills all her hearers. It thrills 
even the dead man. He starts to his feet. He gazes at her 
in amazement. 

He is no longer of the past, but the awful now. He 
stands for a moment and gazes at the actress, who, having 
her eyes upon the person she is addressing on the stage, 
sees him not. Bob and Enoch try to make him sit down, 
but although living and breathing laboredly under his ex- 
citement. he is deaf to them. 

He steps out in the aisle and starts toward the stage, just 
as the bird charmed by the sei’pent is impelled forward. 
He sees not the orchestra, the vast audience, nor the stage 
— only the actress whose sweet, pathetic voice thrills all 
around her. 

An usher sees the strange maneuver of the man, and 
starts to intercept Jiim, but too late. As if overcome by 
some potent spell, he rushes to the orchestra railing, places 
his foot on it, and at one bound clears the footlights and 
stands on the stage, shouting : 

“Una, Una, Una!” 

With a wild shriek the actress, forgetting play and au- 
dience, cried : 

“ Harry!” and fell fainting in his arms. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

THE PURSUIT. 

The audience seemed stunned. There was no explana- 
tion whatever. For a moment they sat in their seats as 
powerle.ss to move as if each had been carved out of stone. 
Had he bounded on the stage and shot the actress down, 
they could not have been more astounded. 

“ He’s mad,” cried one. “Stark, staring mad.” 

“ He has frightened her. She has swooned from fright,” 
cried another. 

Then there rose a strange murmur of voices, which grad- 
ually swelled to a roar. Query followed query, and all 
was a confusion wild and unreasonable, which demanded 
an explanation. 

Mi\ Mori’is, who was on the stage, was too much as- 
tonished to move. His self-possession had deserted him. 

Morgan uoav came forward where the stranger still sup- 
ported the insensible actress in his arms. 


124 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 


“Unhand her, sir,” he said, savagely. 

“Never!” was the firm answer, and he strained her to 
his breast, as if he was afraid she was a vision which 
would fade away, should he release her. 

“ Go away, you vagabond — go away, or I will have you 
beaten,” said Morgan, advancing to him. 

“ Never— s/ic is my wife! I have been torn away from 
her for over six years, and now nothing but death will 
separate us. I am not mad, and as soon as she recovers 
consciousness she will admit all that I have said to be 
true.” 

He spoke rapidly, fluently, and so earnestly, that Morgan 
began to have his eyes opened. He ordered the curtain 
lowered, and the last glimpse the audience got of the affair 
was the strange man carrying off the actress at a side en- 
trance. 

A few moments they waited in anxious expectation, 
hardly knowing what would next be the result, and then 
the curtain was pulled aside, and Mr. Moi’gan coming out, 
addressed them in a few words which quieted them. An 
event had happened which he regretted very much. They 
would be compelled to defer the play until the next night, 
when they would be happy to complete it. He stated tliat 
their checks would admit them on the next night, or they 
could call at the box and get their money. This some- 
what appeased their anxiety, and quieted the most ob- 
streperous. They all supposed the morning papers would 
give a full explanation, and began to file out of the theater 
as fast as they could. 

Tliere was much wondering and commenting as to what 
was transpiring behind the curtain. Some said the bold, 
impudent stranger who had dared assault the great actress 
had been killed ; others that he had been arrested and con- 
veyed to the police-station. 

Bob and Enoch, the friends of the mysterious book- 
keeper, were perhaps the most alarmed for their friend. 

/They saw him no more, and heard no more from him after 
the great curtain fell. The confusion had been too great 
for them to catch even the few words which had been ut- 
tered. They would have given but a poor key if heard, 
and would, beyond a doubt, have been taken for the mur- 
murings of a madman. 

“I always knew he was wrong,” said Enoch. “ He only 
had a lucid interval, and the play made him crazy again.” 

They waited in the theater until all the others had gone. 

“ Why don’t you go out?” asked an usher, savagely. 

“We want to hear something of our friend — the crazy 
man who sprung upon the stage. ” 

“Oh! he is taken care of,” said the usher. 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 


125 


“Was he hui't?'’ 

“No.” 

“They will pity him, and no injure him, will they 
not?” 

“Oh, yes.” 

“ Do you know what they did with him?” 

“ No, I don’t. All I know is that he is not hurt, and 
will not be. It’s none o’ my business, but it’ll all be right. 
I guess you’ll see or hear from him to-morrow.” 

Thus assured. Bob and Enoch went away, very much 
mystified at what had happened. 

We next invite the reader’s attention to the apartment 
of Miss Vandell. She is in her room, but not alone. Side 
by side on the sofa, their arms entwined about each other, 
sit the actress and the strange book-keeper who had inter- 
rupted the play. 

Ah, what joy ! and yet their tears flow in profusion. Mr. 
^Morgan has the entire company in another apartment, and 
there, in their midst, is relating a wonderful story. It 
sounds so much like romance, that had they not been eye- 
witnesses to the denouement, they must have believed it 
fiction. But it is true, strange as it may seem to them. 
They fully realize that truth is stranger than fiction. 

Six long years since those loving hearts has been torn 
asunder by the wicked machinations of one man, and the 
most cruel circumstances. No wonder Mr. Morgan and 
the company leave them alone for the evening — their first 
evening together in six years. And, dear reader, let us be 
as just as the manager. 

We can imagine the tears, and sighs, and sobs, as each 
heart-rending story is told. We can imagine the fond, for- 
giving Avords Avhich each utters. There could have been 
but one pang to their bliss, and that was the missing child, 
whom one had never seen, and the other had not seen since 
her babyhood. Harry Clarendon was the nexyt morning 
like a man filled with neAV life. There was one despei-ate 
purpose for which he lived. That was to have his child, 
and be revenged on the author of all their misery. 

Mr. Morgan met him early next morning, and said : 

“ Mr. Clarendon, what will your wife do to-night?” 

“Play as usual,” he said. “I think she can do more 
good that w’ay than to quit.” 

“ And the affair ” 

“ Of last night? Oh, let the public draw their own con- 
clusion. Hint that it Avas the act of a crank. Let the 
•papers state so if they wish.” 

“Half a dozen reporters for evening papers have been 
besieging me already,” said Morgan. “ It Avill be an easy 
thing to give the matter that turn, Avithout resorting to 


126 


LOST TO THE WORLD, 


falsehood either. They are very quick to take hints and 
jump at conclusions. Do you think Mrs. Clarendon will 
be able ” 

" Sbe says she will.” 

“ Her nervous system received a great shock.” 

“ It did. Poor Una, it’s not the first. She is used to 
them.” 

“ The whole affair is quite romantic,” said Morgan. “It’s 
better than a play. If it could be made a play, what a 
grand play it would be !” 

“Do the company understand it all?” Harry Clarendon 
asked. 

“Yes.” 

“ Will they keep it close?” 

“ Have no fears; I have the promise of every one. Their 
sympathies are all enlisted in your welfare. Oh, how 
they’d like to kill Gass!” 

“So would I!” said Clarendon, his teeth set. “Mr. 
Morgan, when I meet that man there will be something 
desperate!” 

“No one could blame you,” said the manager. 

“Where is the detective?” 

“ At work, I am expecting to hear from him to-day.” 

“Gass is in the city,” said Harry, “ I met him buying 
a dress— for my child, no doubt. He told me my Avife vvas 
dead, and a story I thought true. Oh, villain ! the destroyer 
of my young manhood !— would to Heaven I could lay my 
hands on you !” 

While they were still talking a messenger boy came 
bounding up the steps of the hotel with a telegram. It 
was a telegram for Morgan. Morgan’s room was on the 
same floor with Miss Vandell’s and only across the hall 
from it. 

Morgan and Harry Clai’endon Avere standing in the hall- 
Avay. The messenger boy ran up Avith the telegram and 
gave it to Mr. Morgan. 

The manager opened it. 

“ It’s from the detective,” he said. 

“ What does he say?” asked Harry. 

“ That he has the villain located, but that he is going to 
leave the city with the child. The child was seen last 
night alive and Avell. He Avill try and intercept them. 
He says I had better come.” 

“No; I Avill go,” said Harry. 

“We can both go.” 

The door of Una’s room opened, and she came out, pale, * 
and dressed in misty white from throat to instep. 

“ Oh, Harry! can I let you go?” she cried, throwing her 
arms about his neck. 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 


137 


“ Hinder me not, my dear; it is for our little Isola.” 

She removed her arms without another word. 

He pressed her to him, and kissing her forehead and 
lips, bade her be of good cheer. In an hour he and the 
manager had gone to the place where the detective had in- 
timated by his dispatch he would be. 

Harry Clarendon was introduced to the detective and his 
story told in as few words as possible. 

‘ ‘ 1 am glad, Mr. Clarendon, that you are alive, and that 
I have found you; for there is not a moment to lose.” 

“ Do you know where my child is?” 

“About.” 

“Where is she? Oh! where is she?” the father asked, 
with a consuming anxiety about a child which twenty- 
four hours ago he did not know was in existence, 

“I cannot say for certain. She is in the city. I have a 
man watching him. He is about to leave.” 

“ By rail?” 

“I don’t know. Here are three horses saddled and 
bridled, if needed. I am waiting to see.” 

“ How could he see there?” thought Harry; “ there was 
nothing to see,” 

Just then a messenger boy handed the detective a mes- 
sage. It read : 

“ Gone in a close carriage down the San Diego road, at 
full speed.” 

“Then in God’s name, let’s lose no time!” said the anx- 
ious father, 

“ Here are the horses; we will mount and be off,” said 
the detective. 

Three minutes later, three horsemen thundered down 
the street, leaving a trail of dust and sparks behind them. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

RETRIBUTION. 

The thi’ee horses upon which the detective, the manager, 
and Harry Clarendon were mounted were of that pecul- 
iarly tough California breed of roadsters noted for their 
speed and endurance. They were not large, and yet above 
the average grade of mustangs. 

The manager was unaccustomed to horseback-riding, 
and for the first half mile seemed to be in danger of going 
over the animal’s head, and the next the danger seemed 
to be the other way. The wild clatter of steel-toed shoes 
upon the stony street brought hundreds of people to the 
windows to see the three horsemen thunder by. Showers 
of sparks rose from the hoofs of the horses. 


128 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 


After a gallop of two miles they halted at a house where 
a man was evidently waiting for them. 

“ Well, Mitchell?” said the detective. 

“They’ve gone.” 

“ Which way?” 

“ Down the San Diego road.” 

“ Have you any idea how long since they have been on 
the road?” 

“ They have a three hours’ start.” 

The detective gave utterance to an exclamation of dis- 
satisfaction. 

“ Has anything gone amiss?” Harry asked. 

“No; only they have a better start of us than I would 
wish.” 

“ Can you not telegraph ahead, and have them stopped?” 

“ I am afraid to try it now,” said the detective; “such a 
thing might ruin our prospects, such as we have.” 

They galloped on. It was evident that the chase was 
telling hard on the manager. He was unaccustomed to 
such travel, and this was a very severe ride for the first. 

‘‘ Do you think you will stand it, Mr. Morgan?” Harry 
asked. 

“I don’t know,” said the manafjer, pressing his hand 
upon his side. “ I am afraid this is rather too much for 
me. I have a severe pain here.” 

“You had better drop out,” said the detective. 

“ I will go as long as I can.” 

They had left the main cit}’^, and were now galloping 
through the suburbs. The open country lay just before 
them, and they could see the fields and hills in the distance. 

A small station-house marked the outward limir of the 
mounted police. The detective galloped up to this, and 
asked a man : 

“What is the latest?” 

“Go straight ahead.” 

“ On the San Diego?” 

“ Yes.” 

“How much the start?” 

“ Tliree hours.” 

“Gained nothing as yet,” said the detective to himself. 
“There’s no chance for a relay of fresh horses, either. 
Were they going fast?” 

“Yes; when the herder, who told us, saw the cariaage 
over the five-mile hill, it was going at a gallop.” 

“ How were their horses?” 

“ Fresh and in good condition.” 

“We must get more speed,” said the detective, when 
they had started on again. 

Mr. Morgan had grown very pale, and he rode behind. 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 


129 


“You can’t keep up, can you?” asked the detective. 

No, I’m afraid not. This American mode of travel is 
too much for me.” 

“ You had better go back.” 

“ I think I shall.” 

He turned his horse about and rode slowly back toward 
the city. 

“ He can’t help it,” said the detective. “ It would have 
killed him.” 

“ He is a brave, noble fellow,” said Harry, “ and I know 
he kept up just as long as he could.” 

They thundered on for an hour in silence. Occasionally 
they passed a small caravan coming in or going: from the 
city. They would pause to gaze with wonder and surprise 
on the two horsemen, whose steeds were reeking with per- 
spii’ation. 

Occasionally the detective would halt and make inquiry 
of persons about a certain close carriage, painted dark, 
with a brown stripe around it, and drawn by a pair of 
bays. So often did Harry Clarendon hear the close car- 
riage painted dark, with a brown stripe, and the two bays 
described, that he fancied he would know vehicle and 
horses anywhere. 

The carriage was reported to be from ten to fifteen miles 
ahead. An hour or two elapsed, and at the next inquiry 
the carriage was ten or twelve miles ahead. At the next 
they were from eight to ten miles ahead. 

“We are surely gaining on them,” said the detective. 
“But Gass must have the best span of horses west of the 
Rocky Mountains.” 

“ Maybe he changes horses.” 

“ No; we’d hear of it if he did.” 

At one o’clock they were forced to stop for thirty minutes 
for some refreshments, and to allow their horses to rest. 
Here the detective tried to buy fi’esh horses, but was told 
he could do so further on at an old Mexican’s ranch. 

It was two miles to the ranch, and when they came to it 
the Mexican said he had horses, and had sold two fine ones 
for a carriage, as their horses had given out. 

“ How far is that carriage ahead?” the detective asked. 

“ Oh, nod more dan five mile, senor,” said the Mexican. 

They were gaining ; but now all having fresh horses to 
gather, the chase would still be long. They had the ad- 
vantage, for a horse under the saddle' will go faster than 
one in harness. Away they went, and just as the sun had 
dipped behind the western horizon of water they came in 
sight of a carriage away in the distance. 

“There it is!” said the detective. 

Oh, how anxious the father felt! The horses were urged 


130 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 


to a gallop, although the detective had told him they must 
spare them as much as possible. Had Harry Clarendon 

P ossessed a kingdom, he would have given it for a fresh 
orse. 

When darkness came they found themselves gaining 
rapidly. 

The carriage had been driven so furiously that even the 
fresh horses were about to succumb. There was no tele- 
graph or railroad along this route, at this time, by which 
they could head off the fugitives. The only chance was to 
follow in their rear and overtake them. 

“We are not a mile behind,” said the detective. 

The father, with clinched teeth, made no answer, but 
lashed his horse on. 

“Are you armed?” the detective asked. “Cass may 
prefer fight to the penitentiary, and his greaser coachman 
IS sure to be ugly.” 

“I have a good revolver,” was the answer. 

Again they thundered on, and the twilight grew darker 
and darker, obliterating all objects completely. Although 
they were nearing the fleeing carriage, it faded away. 
Sometimes they went in a gallop, and sometimes in a 
trot. The little Spanish horses, tough and almost inex- 
haustible, were blowing hai’d. On, on, and on they rode, 
straining their eyes and ears to get some token of the 
fugitive carriage. 

For almost twelve hours had they been in the saddle, but 
so anxious were they that they seemed not to feel the fa- 
tigue. Well was it for Morgan that he did not attempt to 
keep up in this fearful, mad race. No man as little ac- 
customed as he to the saddle could have endured the ride. 
“ Hark!” said the detective, “ I hear the wheels.” 

“ Yes,” said Harry; “ it is not far away.” 

“It’s not a hundi'ed yards.” 

“Shall we now put forth all speed?” 

“No; get nearer. Go on until we are discovered first.” 
They did. 

They were not to exceed forty yards away when the 
driver saw them, and with a shout plied his whip. 

Away at a run went the carriage horses. 

“Now!” cried the detective, and they plunged the spurs 
into their horses’ flanks. Away they went after it. The 
ground almost trembled beneath them as they flew along, 
the pursuers and the pursued. 

Harry raised his revolver. 

“Don’t!” cried the detective. 

“Why?” 

“Remember your child is in that carriage. 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 131 

The revolver dropped at his side, but he kept his thumb 
oil the hammer. 

‘‘ We are getting nearer,” said the detective. The wild 
clatter of hoofs rang out over the lonely, deserted road. 

Now only ten feet in the rear of the carriage, and now 
not five. The next moment they are running neck and 
neck. It is a wonder the greaser coachman does not fire. 
The detective wishes to avoid bloodshed if he can but at this 
moment a fiash and sharp report from the carriage tell 
the pursuers that the man they would spare has no regard 
for their lives. 

The detective nimbly springs from his saddle upon the 
carriage, and as the driver raises his knife, knocks him 
from the box into the dusty road with the butt of his 
pistol. 

A.t the moment the horses are checked, % dark form, 
with a frightened, screaming child in his arms, springs 
out of the carriage. Haiay Clarendon has leaped from the 
saddle and springs upon him. The child is let fall upon 
the gi’ound, and the two men recoiling from the shock, 
start up, each with a deadly weapon leveled on the other. 

“Hugh Gass, false friend, die!” cried Hai-ry, Two 
sharp reports rang out almost as one, they were so near 
together. 

Harry’s hat was knocked from his head by the bullet of 
his antagonist, but Gass fell to the earth, a bullet in his 
heart. 

“Are you hurt?” the detective asked. 

“No, I think not,” 

“ But the child?” 

There was little need to ask. The father already had his 
child in his arms, and was soothing her alarms by a power 
which seemed magical. 


CHAPTER XXX. 

CONCLUSION. 

Although half dead with terror, and shocked at the 
awful event which had transpired, the child could not but 
realize that it was tender hands which held her, and a kind 
voice which addressed her. The treatment she received 
from the hands of this man was quite in contrast with the 
harsh, gruff treatment from that dark being who lay 
so silent and still in the grass, that she could not but 
tremble when her infant eyes were turned in that direc 
tion. 

It was not far to a ranch, and the detective went there 
for another vehicle and fresh horses. 

Wliile he was gone, the strange man told Isolahe was 


133 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 


her real papa, and that her mamma was in the city wait- 
ing for her, and they would take her back to those good 
old people, Benjamin Thompson and Peggy, who had been 
so kind to her. 

With fresh horses they drove to a railroad station 
twenty miles away, and at four o’clock next morning 
entered the city. Knowing full well that the young wife 
and mother would be waiting, no time was lost, and h( 5 r 
room was reached— yes, she was waiting. Oh, what a cry 
of joy — what a scream as if the pent-up soul had suddenly 
burst forth. 

The bewildered child was embraced and kissed, and 
Hai-ry came in for his share, and Morgan laughed and 
cried, and Miss Montour wept for joy, as did almost every - 
body else. The detective could not help wiping his eyes. 

Isola realized that some great joyful event had happened, 
and she wept and laughed, her little voice sounding like 
the sweetest music of a roguish fairy, as she said : 

“ Me oo dirl, me oo little dirl?” 

“ Yes, darling, you are my little girl,” said Una, “ and I 
love you better than I do my own life.” 

“Me love 00,” said the child. “You git me great big 
doll?” 

This set everybody to laughing, and Clarendon promised 
the doll. The relapse came on soon, and all cried again. 
The most comical person was the detective, who tried to 
appear case-hardened, walking about, coughing, wiping 
his eyes, and blowing his nose, which he claimed was the 
cause of a cold. 

None of the company had retired yet, but after an hour 
or so they began to withdraw, and husband, wife and child 
were left alone. Isola once more slept on her mother's 
arms. The husband looked upon his wife and child for a 
few moments, and said : 

“ Una, God has been good to us— much better than we 
deserve. Henceforth I shall serve him better than I ever 
have done. What will be your course in the future?” 

“Whatever my husband directs,” she answered. 

Una Clarendon played a long engagement in San Fran- 
cisco. While there she was called to the bedside of a dying 
woman. It was her wretched step-mother, who had 
eloped with the man who ruined Mr. Belmont. He had 
deserted her, and she had gone down to ruin and death. 
On her dying bed she begged Una’s forgiveness. 

She did so. How could she, who was so happy, refuse 
forgiveness? But for the gray hairs which streaked the 
lieads of Harry and Una one would not think they had 
gone through so many years of suffering. Little Isola 
grew to love her real parents much better than she could 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 


133 


have loved Ben Thompson and Peggy, kind as they were. 
They returned eastward by way of Chicago, and took the 
old sailor and wife with them. Somehow the story of 
Una’s sufferings, or a part of it, got out, and it seemed to 
increase her reputation. 

She intended to retire from the stage, but she felt herself 
under moral obligation to go with Mr. Morgan on his 
American tour. Everywhere she was greeted with full 
houses. Having no pain at her heart, for her husband and 
child were with her, her wonderful talent seemed to shine 
forth brighter than ever before, 

Gass was buried near where he was killed. He had a 
brother and sister somewhere in the East, but they never 
looked after him. Harry was never arrested for shooting 
him, as it was purely an act of self-defense. The detective 
was paid five thousand dollars for his services. 

Morgan had been somewhat melancholy for some time. 
Una remembered his avowal of love to herself, and 
pitied him. One day, when they were in Cincinnati, he 
said: 

“Mrs. Clarendon, I presume you cannot bo persuaded to 
return with us to England !” 

“ No, Mr. Morgan; I will close my engagement in New 
York. My father shall have a benefit there of all my 
profits, and then I shall retire from the stage forever.” 

“ The world will lose a great deal of genuine talent.” 

“ There will be others who will take my place,” said Una, 
with her arm around her child. 

“ I doubt whether they will be able to fill it. But I am 
not going back to England without a flower plucked from 
the plains of this New World.” 

“What do you mean?” Mrs. Clarendon asked in astonish- 
ment. 

“ Hasn’t she told you?” he asked, blushing. 

“ No — who?” 

“ Catharine Montour.” 

“Oh, Mr, Morgan, do you mean ” begnn the actress. 

“ Yes, I mean we are engaged, and it will come off in 
New York before we sail for England.” 

Una sprung to her feet and grasped his hand, while tears 
gathered in her eyes. 

“Oh, my dear, good friend, I am so glad that you are 
going to be happy I Catharine is the best girl in the world, 
and you deserve just that kind of a girl for a wife.” 

At this moment Miss Montour entered the room, and Una 
sprung to her, threw her arms round her neck, kissed her, 
and said : 

“Oh, you naughty, bad girl, why did you not tell mo 


134 


LOST TO THE WORLD. 


you were engaged? I have a notion not to speak to you 
again.” 

“ My dear,” said her husband, with a laugh, “your words 
are hardly consistent. Awhile ago she was the best girl 
on earth, and now she is a bad, naughty girl.” 

“Well, maybe not,” said Una, seating herself on the 
sofa by her husband’s side. “ I am so happy I am hardly 
myself at any time.” 

Harry drew her head on his breast and kissed her. 

“ Can I do likewise?” said Morgan to his betrothed. She 
blushed and held up her cheek, which he kissed. 

“Me, too,” cried Isola, no longer isolated, running to her 
parents. The child was caught and almost smothered with 
kisses. Never was there a merrier company than entered 
New York. 

Una kept her resolution of retiring from the stage and 
giving her father her net earnings. During the tour she 
had made money enough to live in splendor and at her 
ease all her life. She learned for the first time, from 
Gass’ lawyer — who did not care from which side he got a 
fee— of the large estate she was entitled to from her 
mother. 

Harry had also fallen heir to some valuable property in 
Massachusetts. Una had her father and half-brothers and 
sisters provided for. After her long trials and sufferings 
she had been restored to so much happiness, she could not 
but be generous. 

The wedding between Morgan and Miss Montour was a 
quiet affair. We are sure the bride was beautiful, and the 
bridegroom gallant and noble. Both were happy. 

When the company started for England, Harry, Una 
and little Isola accompanied them to the dock. They stood 
on the long pier as the great ocean steamer backed out, 
and wafted kisses after them. Little Isola shed tears at 
the departure of their friends, and the eyes of Una and 
Harry grew dim. 

But the great vessel is so far out in the harbor that ob- 
jects on her deck have faded out, and they get into their 
carriage to return to their elegant home. 

“ I hope you are not sad, my dear,” said the husband to 
his young wife. 

“ Oh, Harry, how can I, who was lost to the world so 
long, be sad, when I have you and sweet little Isola with 
me?” 

“We should never be sad, my dear. We never will 
again.” 

[THE END.] 


Munro’s Librair. 

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27 — When the Ship Comes Home, by Besant and Rice.... 

28 — John Halifax, Gentleman, by Miss Mulock 

30 — ^The Romantic Adventures of a Milkmaid 

33 — Kit: a Memory, by James Payn 

43 — Charlotte Temple, by Mrs. Rowsoc 

62 — Two Wedding Rings, by Margaret Blount 

66 — The Curse of Dangerfield, by Elsie Snow 

60 — A Qu“en Amongst Women, and Between Two Sins... 

6;,— LucUe, by Owen Meredith 

6.'i-Thaddeus of Warsaw, by Jane Porter 

64— Charles Auchester, by E. Berger 

67 — Barbara’s History, uy Amelia B. Edwards 

68— Called to Account, by Annie Thomas 

78 — A Double Marriage, by Beatrice Collensie 

79 — The Wentworth Mystery, by Watts Phillips 

81— Plot and Counterplot, Author of “Quadroona” 

86— Little Golden •• 

87 — Daughters of Eve, by Paul Meritt 

91 — A Fatal Wooing, by Laura Jean Libbey 

94 — Merit Versus Money, by Garnett Mamell 

98 — Pauline, by the Author of “Leonnette’s Secret”. ... 

101— Dregs and Froth, by A. H. Wall 

108< -The Eyrie, and The Mystery of a Young Girl....... '.j. 

109- .Oabrielle, by Louise McCarthy 

126 — A Coachman’s Love, by Herbert Bernard 

Dangerous Game, by Ida Linn Guard. 


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153— Berlin Society, by Count Paul Vasili 10 

155 — Lite's Joys, by Emile Zola 20 

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105 — Not Like Other Girls, by Rosa Nouchette Carey 20 

166 — The Midshipman, Marmaduke Merry 20 

168— An Old Man’s Love, by Anthony Trollope 10 

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182 — Cornin’ Thro’ the Rye, by Helen B. Mathers 20 

183 — Nancy, by Rhoda Broughton 20 

202 — The Mysteries of Louis Napoleon’s Court 20 

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207 — The Man She Cared For, by F. W. Robinson 20 

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209 — Fourteen Years With Adelina Patti 10 

210 — Sappho, by Alphonse Daudet 10 

213 — Cruel as the Grave, by Genevieve Ulmar 20 

215— Called Back, by Hugh Conway 10 

228 — A Sinless Secret, by “ Rita ” 10 

231 — The Gambler’s Wife, by Author of “ The Belle of the 

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232— John Bull’s Neighbor 10 

234— Beyond Recall, by Adeline Sergeant 10 

235 — The Parisian Detective, by F. Du Boisgobey 10 

239— Love and Mirage 10 

243 — A Sea Change, by Flora L. Shaw T 20 

245 — At War With Herself 10 

246 — John Bull’s Misfortunes 10 

248 — From Out the Gloom 20 

249 — Love’s Warfare, 10 

250 — The Queen of Hearts, by Wilkie Collins 20 

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256 — Beau Tancrede, by Alex. Dumas 20 

258 — The Pathfinder, by J. Fenimore Cooper 20 


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317~Our Mutual Friend — Part II 20 

318 — ^Bleak House — Part 1 20 

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320 — Martin Chuzzlewit — ^Part 1 20 

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822 — Dombey and Son — Part 1 20 

323 — Dombey and Son — Part II 20 

324 — Great Expectations 20 

325 — Mrs. Lirriper’s Legacy and Lodgings 20 

326 — Little Dorrit — Part 1 20 

327 — Little Dorrit — Part II 20 

328 — The Pickwick Papers — Part 1 20 

329 — The Pickwick Papers — Part II 20 

330 — Mystery of Edwin Drood 20 

331 — The Uncommercial Traveler 20 

332 — Sketches by Boz 20 

313 — American Notes 20 

334 — Pictures from Italy and Mudfog Papers 20 

MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 

335 — Life of Gen. Grant 10 

336 — A Terrible Secret, by Geraldine Fleming 10 

337 — The Russians at the Gates of Hei-at, by C. Marvin 10 

338 — On the Fo’k’s’le Head, by W. Clark Russell; and 

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3 >9 — Slaves of the Ring, by Geraldine Fleming 20 

340 — A Lost Son, by Mary Linskill 10 

311 — Dead Men Tell no Tales, But Live Men Do, by G. A. Sala 20 

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348 — Joshua Haggard’s Daughter 20 

849 — Rupert Godwin 20 


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SOME PKESS NOTICES 

or 

MUNRO’S POCKET MAGAZINE. 


What the World thinks of No. 1: 

The first number of Muhro’s Pocket Magazine, published to-day, it 
a neat bandy volume of 320 pages. It contains Max O’Rell’s “John 
Bull’s ’Daughters,” complete; Louisa Lauw’s “Fourteen Years with 
Adelina Patti,” complete; the opening chapters of “ A Family Affair,” 
by the author of “ Called Back,” and a choice miscellany of short 
Btories and poems taken from the best English magazines. The Editorial 
Tid-bits contain bright comments on the topics of the day, the move- 
ment in literary, dramatic and social circles. The magazine is to appear 
monthly. 


What the Sun says: 

Mttnro’s Pocket Magazine made its appearance yesterday. It is in a 
small duodecimo form, and is made up of interesting selections judi- 
ciously put together. The whole of Max O’Rell’s “ John Bull’s Daugh- 
ters ” is given. The number contains more than three hundred closely 
printed pages. 


What the Tribune observes: 

Mr. N. L. Munro has just begun the publication of a monthly 
^hich he calls Monro’s Pocket Magazine. It is a collection printed in 
reasonably clear type of some of the best current matter of the English 
magazines combined with the complete publication of such books as 
“ John Bull’s Daughters.” A few contributions from. American authors 
will be included in the list and an editorial department will be main,' 
tained. 


Munro’s Pocket MaotAzine is the cheapest joarnai o! 
its kind in the world. Each number contains 

350 PAGES 

of reading matter by the most celebrated authors. 

For Sale by all Newsdealers, or sent, on receipt of 20 
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MUNRO’S PUBLISHING HOUSE. 

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nnn. alfx mcveigh 9Iiller'«^ workis. 

No. 1. A Dreadful Temptation - *^5 Centfc 

•• 2. The Bride of the Tomb ^ ** 

** 3. An Old Man’s Darling ^ . 

4. Queenle’s Terrible Swret * 

•* 5. Jaquelina ^ 

^ 6. Little Golden’s Daughter ^ ^ 

** 7. The Rose and the Lily ^ ^ 

•• 8. Countess Vera ?0 

** 9. Bonnie Dora .V. ^ ^ 

* 10. Guy Kenmore’s Wife - 20 

GEORGE EUOT'S WORKAo 

•• 11. Janet’s Repentance 10 • 

*• 12. Silas Marner 10 

‘ 18. Felix Holt, the Radical 20 - 

- 14. The Mill on the Floss 20 

15. Brother Jacob 10 ** 

•* 16. Adam Bede 20 

•* 17. Romola ^ ** 

•• 18, Sad Fortunes of Rev. Amos Barton* 10 •* 

“ 19. Daniel Deronda * 20 *• 

•* 20. Middlemarch ^ ** 

21. Mr. Gllfll’s Love Story 10 **• 

•• 22. The Spanish Gypsy 20 •* 

’*23. Impressions ox Theophrastus Such 10 ^ 

Mls-ICELEANEOVIS WORETil* 

24. The Two Orphans. ByD’Ennery 10 

25. Yolande. By WilUan^^ack 20 •• 

*• Lady Audley’s Secretw By Miss Br^don 20 •• 

“ 27. When the Ship Comes Home. By Besant & Rice 10 •• 

** 28. John Halifax. Gentleman. By >Uss Mulock 20 ** 

•• 29. In Peril of his Life By Gaboriau 20 •• 

•* The Romantic Adventures of a Milkmaid 10 •• 

•* 81. Molly Bawn. By the Duchess 20 

** 32. Portia. By the Duchess 20 •• 

•* 3l Kit: a Memory. By James Payne 20 •• 

•* 34. East Lynne. By Mrs. Henry Wood 20 ^ 

*• 35. Her Mother’s Sin. By Bertha M. Clay 10 •• 

36. A Princess of Thule. By William Black 20 •* 

*• 37. Phyllis, By the Duchess 20 •* 

•’ 88. David Copperfleld. By Charles Dickens 20 •* 

•* 39. Very Hard Cash. By Charles Reade 20 “ 

40. Ivanhoe. By Sir Walter Scott 20 ** 

** 41. Shirley. By Miss Bronte ^ ** 

“ 42. The Last Days of Pompeit By ^Iwer Lytton 20 

43. Charlotte Temple. ByMlssRowson 10 * 

•• 44. Dora Thome. JBy Bertha M. Clay 20 ^ 

*• 45. Old Curiosity Shop. ^ Charles Dickens 20 •• 

46. Camille. By Alex. Dumas, Jr 10 ** 

47. The Three Guardsmen. By Alex. Dumas 20 *• 

** 48. Jane Eyre By Charlotte Bronte 20 *• 

“ 49. Romance of a Poor Young Man. By Feulllet 10 ** 

** 50. Back to the Old Home. By Mary Cecil H^ 10 *• 

“ 51. Maggie; or, the Loom Girl of Lowell. By william Mason Turner, M. D.20 ** 

** 52. Two Wedding Rings. By Margaret Blount 20 ** 

53. Led Astray. By Helen M. Lewis 20 

“ 54. A Woman’s Atonement. By Adah M; Howard 20 •• 

“ 55. False. By Geraldine Fleming 20 

“ 56. The Curse of Dangerfield. By Elsie Snow 20 

“ 57. Ten Years of His Life. By Eva Evergreen 20 

•* 58. A Woman’s Fault. By Evelyn Gray 20 ** 

** 59. Twenty Years After. By Alex. Dumas 20 

60. A Queen Amongst Women and Between Two Sins. By Bertha M. Clay .20 •• 

61. Madolin’s Lover. By Bertha M. Clay 20 •* 

“ 62. Thaddeus of Warsaw, By Jane Porter ^ •• 

** Lucile. By Owen Meredith 20 “ 

64. Charles Auchester. By E. ^rger 20 ** 

** 65. A Strange Story. By Bulwer 20 ** 

•* 66. Aurora Floyd. By Miss Braddon 20 “ 

** 67. Barbara’s History. By Amelia R Edwards 20 

•• 68. Called to Account. By Annie Thomas 20 “ 

69. Old Myddleton’s Money. By Mary Cecil Hay 20 

70. Thoms and Orange Blossoms. By Bertha M. Clay. Complete 10 •• 

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